Reflections in the Undertow
by Betz88
Summary: If you have read "Darkened Wings", the story I posted here in 2014, you may have wondered how House got that way. This is how!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: For those of you who read "Darkened Wings", the story I posted in 2014, the question arose: "Why did House affect such a sea change on himself?" This story is the answer to that. It was difficult for him to turn away from the "misanthropic bastard". It was an uphill battle, but it was necessary, and he found some willing help. (Working on this story, I felt like I was spending a year in a parallel universe.) Thanks, Betz88

Chapter 1

"Hope is a Useless Emotion"

"THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT".

DON'T TRY TO USE THAT AS AN EXCUSE, DUMBASS, BECAUSE IT'S NOT ONE!

I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I WAS THINKING WHEN I SPUN THE OLD DYNASTY INTO A NASCAR U-TURN, JAMMED THE GAS PETAL TO THE FLOOR AND AIMED IT UP HER DRIVEWAY. I CRASHED STRAIGHT THROUGH THE BIG WINDOW WALL OF HER DINING ROOM.

MY LEG WAS ALREADY BLOODY, AND NOW MY STOMACH AND RIB CAGE HIT THE STEERING WHEEL WITH AN IMPACT THAT TORE MY BREATH AWAY.

I'VE DONE A LOT OF CRUEL, STUPID AND REPREHENSIBLE THINGS IN MY LIFETIME, BUT THAT ONE … THAT ONE TOOK THE CAKE. THAT ONE WOULD CHALK UP AS THE MOST CRIMINALLY INSANE STUNT I'D EVER PULLED. NO ONE DESERVED THAT. NOT EVEN HER. NOR DID SHE NEED SOMEONE LIKE ME HANGING AROUND HER THREE-YEAR-OLD CHILD. I COULD NOT BLAME THIS FINAL ESCAPADE ON MY PHYSICAL PAIN … ONLY ON THE SCREWED UP NO-MAN'S-LAND INSIDE MY OWN HEAD.

SOMETHING INSIDE MY BRAIN WAS OUT OF WHACK AND NEEDED ADJUSTMENT. BIG TIME!

NOW!

Only a half hour before, I'd parked my car in front of her house with Wilson in it, and got out with the expensive hair brush she'd asked me to return. She'd broken off our love affair … if that's what it was … because she said she couldn't take any more. I questioned that decision inside my own head, but if she wasn't happy, I'd never have any peace.

I picked up the hair brush with the la-de-dah handle, got out of the car while Wilson, sitting in the passenger seat, looked doubtful. I walked toward the house. My bum leg was on fire from its most recent surgery, and the right thigh of my jeans was spongy. My hand came away from it tinged with red. I saw her inside the house with some guy I didn't know. She was smiling and her palm rested lightly on his arm. I turned to walk away. I said nothing.

Pole-axed, I turned and limped back to the car where Wilson was waiting. I tossed the brush onto the dashboard and ordered him out of the car. He looked at me with surprise and worriment on his face. He thought I had simply chickened out. He mumbled something about 'getting my feelings out' …

 _*Oh yeah, Jimmy. I'm gonna get 'em out. All of 'em. Just watch me!*_

He got out of the car with reluctance and stood awkwardly on the sidewalk. I gunned that old engine and yanked the gearshift down to 'drive'. She picked up speed quickly and burned rubber to the end of the block. I jockeyed the brake and spun the wheel in a circle like I was Jimmie Johnson. The ass-end of that old car spun around like a slingshot with a mind of its own, and suddenly I was barreling back the way I had come.

At that moment adrenaline and endorphins fought for dominance and only a major act of violence would sate the red cloak of fury that overtook me. I felt it surging inside, searing pathways to my brain. I wasn't in the real world anymore. I was in the ether, seeing nothing to left or right; racing down a straight, narrow, coruscating blind tunnel that could have but one possible outcome.

Peripherally, I was aware only of a flash of movement; someone scrambling away from the speeding car that careened off the street and up the short driveway, heading hell-bent for the house. Only later did I realize it was Wilson, scurrying aside, taking a nosedive into the hard cement, the Dynasty's front fender missing him by inches.

It dawned on me that I had put six lives in harm's way, including my own. But all I could think of was the humiliation and the anguish and fury I felt at the moment. She called off our relationship and asked me to return the damned hairbrush she left at my apartment, and then paraded another man in front of my face. I should have walked away right then and there. But no. I found her damn brush and, full of virtuous anger, got in my car to return it.

My single-mindedness was in such a state that I barely felt the pain spiraling upward between my knee and hip, and the torn stitches leaking blood that would have dire consequences later. My leg was like a dead weight, but my mind was elsewhere and I didn't care about the pain, or whom I might put in jeopardy. The thought in my mind: _*I'll show you, bitch!*_

The car hit the house hard and jolted to a stop as the engine quickly died in post-ignition gulps. Reality returned with a vengeance as I saw the crumbling wall and all that vinyl siding coming apart in chunks. I saw the plate glass window as it shattered into a cloudburst of dagger-like splinters all around me.

I slammed into the steering wheel with my gut and rib cage when the drag of broken masonry skidded under the car and stopped it dead. Plaster and torn insulation and pieces of broken furniture cascaded downward, and I fought to regain my wind as small particles of plaster dust rose in the air, and my ability to breathe was knocked to hell and gone.

She was standing in her kitchen, staring in horror and disbelief at the shambles of her dining room.

 _*What the hell had I done!*_

My rage and sense of vengeance were gone. Evaporated. In a daze, I grasped the fancy hair brush, still jammed onto the dashboard. I climbed with unsteady caution out of the front seat and pulled my cane after me. I levered upward, stepping gingerly across the debris field I had created. I thrust the brush into her senseless hands without a word and turned away from the damaged car and the smashed house.

I left then, with as much righteous indignation as I could possibly muster. Across the broken threshold, down the slight incline of her front lawn, and onto the grit-speckled sidewalk.

My stomach was in my throat and the intensity of the leg pain came rushing back. I felt as though I might collapse. My ribcage throbbed like someone had hit me with a sledge hammer. I knew I deserved it. I hobbled to the sidewalk and stopped short. Schooling my face to an expression of blameless satisfaction, I stared into the ashen, astonished visage of my walking conscience.

James Wilson stood before me, hunched over his injured arm. I had caused this pain to the only friend I had left in the world, and I was ashamed. Mortified. But I could not let him know that I was anything except contemptuous.

We exchanged a few terse words, but I don't remember much what they were.

 _Except:_ "How's that for 'getting my feelings out'?"

I stomped away from him, saving face in the best imitation of unholy passion, righteous fury, and one-upmanship I had ever attempted. I left him hurt and speechless and stunned with confusion. I abandoned the scene of destruction as though I might have been only a curious passerby.

Down the street and around the corner, I phoned for a cab to take me back to my apartment. I was without medication, and the agony in my leg was escalating to the point of debilitation. The dark blood-stain on my pant leg was seeping downward toward my knee. I had to get home and do some fast and necessary repairs and some quick decision making.

It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

I unlocked my front door and staggered down the hallway to the bathroom. The pain was excruciating: in my leg and my gut and my heart.

 _*What the hell is wrong with me?*_

I pulled my pants down and sat on the commode lid staring at the wreckage. With my knee bent and my jeans puddled on the floor, the saturated surgical dressings dripped steadily on the jeans and the small throw rug beneath them. A thin line of red that trickled down my lower leg made it look like it had been slit down its length. My sock was stained darkly. The whole scenario began to turn my stomach. My shoes were not bloodied. I took them off and tossed them across the room. The right sock was saturated beyond redemption. I leaned forward painfully and pulled them off.

 _*Jesus!*_

I was getting light-headed, not due to being squeamish, but I was sickened by the poisonous thoughts whirling in my head. The realization was that I had committed a criminal act, and there might soon be police knocking on my door.

I sat mesmerized, watching the bright dollops of red as they dripped steadily off the skin of my leg and puddled on the ruined pants. I must tend the wound and stem the loss of blood before I lost enough to go into shock. I was already beginning to get the shakes. My body was telling me it had had more than enough. Further trauma immediately after surgery was never an acceptable phenomenon.

My fingers were stiff, my arms unwilling to move. My vision was losing and regaining focus … in and out … my mind replaying over and over, the scenario of an hour ago …

 _*Was it only an hour?*_

In my mind, the images ran again and again: the fishtailing of that old car down the middle of the street, the squeal of tires and the smoke from burning rubber as I gunned it like a Kamika'ze pilot on a suicide run. Had I been trying that hard to kill myself? Or her? With Wilson as collateral damage?

 _*Oh God!*_

My head kept replaying it … hitting the wall and the spray of debris exploding into the air.

I pressed my hand to my stomach and slid it around to my side in an almost mechanical gesture of exploration. I could feel the tenderness of the bruises that were spreading there, even now. I lifted my shirt to the sight of blotched red and purple skin. And I continued to stare unfocused at the slow drip of my own blood, gently spiraling down and away from the darkly saturated bandages.

I must get the dressings off, check to see what was left of the freshly administered stitches, if anything. Patch it up if I could. Bind it securely for the night if I couldn't. The pain was a steady drumbeat; a rolling thunder.

Also, I didn't want to go to jail. If they arrested me, they might have to carry me. But in my mind I deserved anything I got.

Finally I unwound the soaked bandage and took a quick inventory of things I had to fix. The surgical wound had partly reopened; tiny dark edges of skin indicating where the stitches had been. I picked up a loose end of suture and drew it out. At least two pulled stitches. Not good, but not a disaster. There were probably more. They'd had to cut deep into the meat of my thigh, above the original scar to remove the damn tumors.

One or two of the tiny subcutaneous sutures were blown also, which was where all the blood was coming from. I wasn't about to dive in there and try to extract any of them. They would dissolve later on their own. I would have to press the edges of skin together and tape it. I had to wrap it securely in order to keep it from opening again. That meant I couldn't walk, or else it would open right back up again.

 _*Fuck!*_

I grabbed toilet paper from the roll and wrapped it around and around my hand until the entire roll was gone. The thick pad that resulted would have to do to keep me from bleeding all over everything until I could dig my first aid kit out of my wardrobe in the bedroom. I eased upward on one foot and hop-stepped across to the doorway.

I returned to the bathroom the same way and plopped back onto the john lid, kicking the jeans and socks and rug into the corner and smearing a trail of blood across the floor.

I had plenty of adhesive tape, gauze and antiseptic. There were bottles of hydrogen peroxide, iodine and Merthiolate; two rolls of wide elastic bandage, two rolls of adhesive tape, and a vial of purloined Vicodin I'd forgotten was there. I had to get up to wet a hand towel with warm water and anti-bacterial soap, and I did that with the pad of toilet paper still pressed against the wound. Back on the john, I examined the wound again. Blood flow was easing a bit and I was relieved. I cleansed around the edges where blood was encrusted, and patted it dry. I painted the site with Merthiolate, but some of it leaked directly into the wound and I howled with pain.

"OW-W-W … !"

I used three strips of adhesive tape over three gel-pads and a thick layer of gauze to draw the edges back together. They'd shaved the skin when they did the surgery, so there were no stray hairs to get caught under the tape. I held everything in place and straightened my leg before me so I could utilize both elastic bandages to stabilize it temporarily.

From just below my knee to just above the new incision, I wrapped it, not so tightly that it cut off the circulation, but tight enough to keep the tape in place and draw the edges together. The pain was incredible, and I knew I could not bend my knee without the chance that the edges would separate again and I would be right back where I started. I would have to be very careful for weeks.

No thoughts of Wilson intruded now, or the broken wall of _her_ house. Or how I might retrieve my old car from the hole in the wall where it laid, wounded and hopeless … like me.

As much as I hated to do it, I stood up again and hop-stepped back to the bedroom to retrieve the old, squeaky aluminum crutches from infarction days, which I used as I stumbled around to clean up the mess I'd made and put the bloody clothing into a garbage bag to take it … who-the-hell knew where …

I grabbed another garbage bag; a little bigger than the last one, and pulled it over my foot and up my leg, and fastened it an inch or so below my crotch. I struggled out of the rest of my clothing and got into the shower. For a long time I stood beneath water as hot as I could stand it until the residual blood stains ran down the drain. Across the right side of me, the skin was black and blue and dark shades of purple. Thank god there were no broken ribs, or I would be done for. But the souvenirs of my idiocy were readily apparent. I treated the area very tenderly.

I dressed slowly with a lot of 'ouching', in a pair of old casual pants that did nothing to conceal the clumsy bandaging on my leg. Clean tee shirt, clean socks and no shoes.

Later, I propped myself on the couch, fortified with the serendipitous Vicodin, and let the hellfire in my abused leg calm down a little. The old crutches lay propped against the other end of the couch and a bed pillow cushioned and elevated my leg. The left shoe was on the floor in front of the couch and the right one was stuffed in my backpak. My cane was stuffed in there too, half of it sticking out the top.

There was a half glass of Scotch sitting near my elbow.

I dragged the phone onto my lap and laid my passport beside it. I had a note pad and pen close by. Arrangements must be made. I called the airline in Newark first, and made round-trip reservations to San Juan. The police had not knocked on my door yet, but I had decided to fly the coop for a time and let them have at the island of Puerto Rico. Even though I wouldn't be there. Maybe they wouldn't discover that I'd ferreted out one of the many 'fly-for-cash' pilots I knew were working there, and ferrying people all over the many islands in the vicinity.

The cops never did show up at my door that day. I wondered why, but didn't ask any stupid questions to make myself appear more vulnerable than I already was. I thought about calling Wilson to see how he was doing. But that would only invite more of his monotonous judgmental recriminations, and I didn't want to hear another lecture. I knew he was still breathing when I walked away from him, and that had to be good enough for now.

I called Vince Crane at the Jeep-Chrysler dealership where I'd bought the Dynasty many years before. Told him he'd find the car at the Princeton Police impound lot. The keys were in it. I asked him to send a roll-back to get it out of there and repair it. I didn't care what it cost; I would send a certified check to get the work started and pay the balance when I picked up the car … probably in about a year … after my leg healed. Again. I told him the check would be in the amount of five grand, certainly enough to cover most of it. I also told him to cash the check quickly, because I was planning to shut down both of my accounts the next day.

Vince didn't ask questions. He knew me better than that, and he could get the rest of the story from the cops … or Wilson … if he wanted it.

The other item on the list was a lot longer. I needed to put some things into storage because I wanted to hang onto them. The rest of the junk I had accumulated over the years was to be sold to the highest bidder. The sooner the better. That list included the baby grand, the Repsol , the stove and the fridge. Odds and ends as well.

I wanted to keep the big bed, the old leather couch, the butcher block table from the kitchen, all my medical books, all my guitars, and my sound system and the collection of vintage vinyl. Couldn't get along without those …

Everything on the "to-sell" list was to be used as payment to the firm for storing everything else. I made arrangements to store the keeper stuff for a year, and kissed everything else goodbye. The guy I talked to agreed readily, and we made arrangements for them to move everything out within three days hence. When we rang off, I knew he was seeing dollar signs in front of his eyes.

The following morning I packed two suitcases and my old blue backpak. I stuffed my passport and wallet and a big wad of cash into the front zipper compartment. By the time I finished, my leg was killing me and I knew I would have to meet the taxi on crutches. The top of my cane stuck out of the backpak like an FM antenna, but it was too long to push down any further. I would not leave it behind, because I intended to use it again _very soon_.

I called the corporation that handled the lease on the apartment and gave the place up, to take effect in exactly one week. The keys would be on the ledge over the front door. I called utility companies to switch everything off. I called to shut down my bank accounts exactly seven days hence, and requested that a certified check for the amount remaining at that time, be made out in my name to Western Union, San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I waited out front for the taxi. For the right remuneration the driver was more than willing to load my suitcases and assist me into the car's back seat, stiff leg, old blue backpak, squeaky crutches and all. He was surprisingly considerate and careful not to hurt me, and at the airport I gave him a twenty dollar tip.

Suddenly I was a rolling stone. Free as the breeze to do as I please.

Homeless and hopeless and helpless.

What a hell of a way to begin a grand adventure …

7


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Wild Blue Yonder"

AT THE AIRPORT I ASKED THE TAXI DRIVER IF HE WOULD MIND CHECKING MY BAGS ONTO THE FLIGHT FOR ME.

HE EYED MY LEG AND THE CRAPPY OLD CRUTCHES; SMILED AND SAID, "SURE, BE GLAD TO …" HE SECURED A BAGGAGE DOLLY AND PLOPPED THE TWO SUITCASES ONTO IT. I GRABBED THE OLD BLUE BACKPAK WITH THE HANDLE OF MY CANE STICKING OUT THE TOP AND SECURED THE STRAP AROUND MY SHOULDER THE WAY I'D ALWAYS DONE IT.

HE CHECKED BOTH PIECES OF LUGGAGE ONTO FLIGHT 781, NEWARK TO SAN JUAN, AND HANDED ME THE CLAIM TICKET. WHEN HE ASKED IF THERE WAS ANYTHING ELSE HE COULD HELP ME WITH, I REALLY SURPRISED MYSELF BY SAYING: "NO … THANK YOU." HE STRAIGHTENED, THEN PAUSED AND TURNED. PLACED A WARM HAND ON MY SHOULDER AND SQUEEZED LIGHTLY. "BE CAREFUL YOU DON'T HURT YOUR LEG, OKAY?" I ASSURED HIM I WOULD. HE NODDED AND WALKED AWAY.

I WONDERED IF HE HAD ANY RELATIVES BY THE NAME OF WILSON …

I had an hour before my flight was ready to board, and the last thing I wanted was to sit and wait on one of the hard benches near the big windows facing the flight line. Too many morons not watching where they were going. Too many old farts with balance issues even worse than mine. Too many spoiled brats left to their own devices, running around unrestrained. I dug in the backpak for the Vicodin I'd found in my first aid kit and took two of them dry. Popped the bottle back into the side pocket and leaned into one of the roof-support poles.

I rested my sock foot on the opposite shoe and leaned hard on the crutches. The look on my face assured that no one in his right mind would come anywhere near me. I had asked for a seat on the port side of the plane, and the woman I talked to said she would try to accommodate me.

I looked around the terminal and saw a line of shops across from me that didn't seem too far to walk. So I set out and maneuvered in the direction of the first place. The interior was small, but management had made good use of the space. It was part lunch-deli, part snack bar, part notions-supply. Paper-back books, a good choice of newspapers, and a raft of magazines lined the walls and dotted the open floor in revolving wire racks. There were two booths along the back wall, both of them empty, and I headed in that direction.

I slid in sideways, hanging the crutches on a coat hook at the end of the booth. I squirmed backward against the backpak and the wall until my leg was stretched across the seat and as comfortable as I could make it. There was a small menu in a clear plastic jacket between the napkin holder and a chrome basket with sugar packets, ketchup and mustard bottles. I drew it out and flipped it open on the surface of the table. It was mostly standard fare. Sandwiches, platters, salads, desserts and the usual run of beverages. I scanned it and put it back. No brainer.

There was a waitress in a blue uniform moving from behind the counter in front and heading in my direction. I watched her approach, hoping like hell that curious questions about my leg would not be the opening topic of conversation.

It wasn't. She stopped in front of my table and gave me an appraising look over the tops of her glasses. Her hair was short and light brown, framing a pretty heart-shaped face. Her eyes were large and soft and brown and reminded me of Wilson.

 _*Get out of my head, asshole …*_

She smiled with pencil poised. "What can I get you to drink? We have really lousy coffee, but the hot chocolate is good, and our mint iced tea is killer."

I scowled up at her, but it was like she didn't notice; just waiting for a response. I nodded in agreement for the tea, and specified, "Unsweetened."

"I like it that way too. Would you like to order now, or do you need a little more time?"

"Order now," I said. "Hamburger, well done. Small Fries. Cole Slaw. That's it."

She spun on her heel and walked back to the kitchen, but returned a minute later with a tall glass of iced tea, almost as dark as coffee and garnished with a slice of lemon. I nodded thanks, but didn't speak. She looked like she might start to ask questions, but thought better of it when she saw the off-putting look on my face. I was adept at that because I'd been honing it and others like it since Noah figured out what a cubit was. She left again and I sipped at the tea, surprised how good it tasted. Strong as hell, and the sharpness of the mint almost made my cheeks want to cave in.

I glanced at my watch. Only ten minutes had passed since the last time I'd looked. It felt longer than that, but when you're waiting for a specific time, hours sometimes seem like days. My leg ached with a tom-tom beat and I rubbed at it in an effort to tame it. The bandages were too tight and the Vicodin had already worn off. My leg had a heartbeat of its own, making me think there might be some swelling going on, and I should probably pay a visit to the men's room before they called my flight.

The waitress returned with my lunch and the check. I wiped the look of distress off my face as she was setting the dishes on the table in front of me. She had a wary look about her when she said: "Enjoy," and walked away again. I pretended to be oblivious and picked up the hamburger … which was broiled, not fried … and the cole slaw which was finely diced. The fries were crispy, not soggy, which surprised me further.

 _*Hmmm … sleazy little coffee shop buried in an airline terminal. Hamburgers and cole slaw and iced tea to die for. Who knew … ?*_

I was hungrier than I had realized, and I hurried through everything because I needed to check the bandages on my leg.

Finally I slid out of the booth, grabbed backpak, crutches and check, and made my way across the room to the counter. She saw me coming and moved over to the register. I pulled out a twenty and slid it across toward her. My bill was ten-something and she reached to make change. I waved her off. "No. Keep the change. Good food, good service, and a chance to rest without silly questions. Thanks."

Twice now, I had used good manners and noticed at once that people looked at me a little differently than usual. What was up with that?

I could feel her eyes on my back as I clomped and screeched my way out of there. In a way I regretted not talking to her, but I had been stared at by so many, and had to listen to crude remarks about my disability for many years. I appreciated her silence much more than I would have put up with another conversation about how my damned leg got that way. I hoped the tip and the left-handed compliment compensated for all her sympathetic unasked questions.

I headed for the men's room on the concourse and noticed a sign across from one of the gates that said: "781, San Juan". Now I knew where I needed to board. The men's room was emptying out as I entered and swung into the "Handicapped" stall.

I unrolled the elastics quickly and checked the wound while I sat there. The gap in the skin was just beginning to close, but it was not yet ready for me to discard both bandages. I still did not dare bend my knee, and it was obvious that the wound must heal from the inside out. _*Oh joy!*_ I knew I must wait until I disembarked in Puerto Rico to discard either of them. Oh well. I rewrapped both bandages a bit looser, and stood up.

I washed my hands at the sink and proceeded back toward the gate I'd passed on the way in. The flight was boarding, and I maneuvered myself in at the end of the line. I didn't try to hurry, although now was the time to get out my ticket … along with my 'cripple card'.

I leaned into my crutches as though they had become a life preserver. My leg still hurt, but I supposed I could walk a few steps on it if I had to. I was still in my sock foot, and the contours of the elastic bandages showed plainly through my jeans.

 _*Gangway, people … cripple coming through …*_

I was moving forward along with the rest of the queue when a young man hurried up behind me and laid a palm on my forearm. "Sir?"

I don't know what I was expecting … cops maybe? But when he touched me, I was startled so badly that my knees buckled, and if two other men, plus the young guy, hadn't rushed in to shore me up, I might have landed on the deck in front of them.

"What the hell … ?"

"I'm so sorry, sir," the young one exclaimed. "I didn't intend to startle you. But you can't board on crutches. It's too dangerous. Are you all right?"

I looked around at the circle of men who had kept me from splattering myself on the boarding ramp. "Uh … yeah … I think so. You scared the crap out of me." Slowly I gathered myself, got the crutches back under me and straightened. The three men began to unhand me, one by one. Embarrassed that my intended scam had turned to reality, I thanked them all and returned my attention to the young airline employee.

Passengers standing off to the side watched the exchange. Some were sober, some were smiling, and some still looked stunned. Nowhere was there an expression of pity or disgust. I looked up and nodded thanks at them all as they began to move forward again.

From the concourse behind us, a woman in a blue uniform was running toward us with a portable wheelchair rolling in front of her like they were headed to a fire. She pulled up beside us and stopped, put the brakes on the chair and turned to me breathlessly. "You're the man in row three. We were afraid you couldn't make it." She knelt beside the chair and opened the wing on the right leg rest.

One attendant at my right shoulder and the other at the left took my crutches and eased me slowly into the seat. The man swung my backpak over his shoulder. With my cane sticking out the top, he looked like he was playing a bagpipe, and I smiled at the image. The woman adjusted the leg rest to about half-staff and lifted my foot upward to place it smoothly into position. "Ready to board?" She asked.

 _*Uh … yeah … that's why I'm here, y'know …*_

I nodded and frowned. What did she expect me to say? _'No, I think I'll just run along behind and hang onto the tail …'?_

She wheeled me down along the narrow aisle of the plane. Port side. Row three, almost to the bulkhead. About four steps from the rest rooms.

 _*Wow! First_ class _!*_

She put the brake on again, and behind her the young guy with my crutches and backpak set them aside. Together they began to make a flurry of adjustments to the row of seats. I had the entire spread to myself. I could prop up my leg and relax … if my leg would cooperate. I settled in the wheelchair and leaned my head against the backrest to watch, not caring who noticed. I was exhausted.

I was vaguely aware that they were still fluttering around, messing with the seats and adjusting things that probably didn't need adjusting, and which I couldn't care less about. I lolled, too tired to move and in a little too much pain to pay attention.

When they were finished, however, the woman touched my arm to rouse me. "Sir?"

I opened my eyes and glowered up at her. The middle arm rests and snack trays had been pushed down between the seats and I found that I had some space to stretch out. The rest of the row was empty, and a pair of pillows was pushed against the outside bulkhead so I could prop against one and rest my leg across the other. The two of them assisted me out of the wheelchair and into my make-shift nest. My crutches were beside me within easy reach and the backpak was on the deck about three inches from my outstretched hand. The young man was requesting permission to lift my leg onto the pillow. I nodded silently and watched as he picked it up by the pantleg and positioned it carefully onto the pillow. "Are you all right, sir?" His hand cradled my sock foot gently.

Between the Vicodin's waning influence and three days of senseless turmoil, I was tired beyond caring, and my mind was in and out of a dense fog. I remembered answering him with the standard assurance. "I'm fine …"

As I lay there, half in and half out of reality, I sensed that the plane was not that full. Maybe this wasn't the right time for vacations to Puerto Rico. The buzz of passenger conversation was intermittent and distant, and somehow mixed with the Tsunami wave of four powerful engines pumping up to taxi mode and then take-off roar. The two young airline employees were gone.

I thought about my friend Wilson as I'd last seen him; hunched over and in pain from an avoidable injury I'd caused him with my idiocy, and the hurt brown eyes watching me walk out of his life. Had he had his arm tended to? Did he hate me as I so rightly deserved this time?

I had never felt so humbled, so hopeless and lonely in my life as I felt at that moment. Very much alone and missing my best friend.

The plane's powerful engines exploded into the lift-off and I lay like a bag of marshmallows with a seat belt fastened across my sore belly, not knowing how it got there.

 _*OUCH! DAMN!*_

"Off we go … into the wild blue yon-der …

Climbing high … into the sun. Here they come …. Zooming to meet our thun-der …

At 'em boys … give 'er the gun!"

12


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Moscha"

I AWOKE SUDDENLY, FLINCHING AT THE SHOCK OF UNEXPECTED SOUND. CRIPPLES DO THAT A LOT, I THINK, ESPECIALLY THOSE OF US WHO EXPERIENCE CHRONIC PAIN.

WHEN I'M STARTLED BY THE UNEXPECTED, MY INSTINCTS REACT QUICKLY TO PROTECT THE LEG, AND I FIND MYSELF ALWAYS GUARDING AGAINST BEING HURT AGAIN AT THE SPOT WHERE I'VE BEEN HURT BEFORE. I'M CONVINCED OF THAT THEORY. ACTUALLY, I MAY BE THE ONE WHO FIRST CAME UP WITH IT. "ANTICIPATION OF PAIN", I CALLED IT ONCE. EVEN WORSE THAN THE ACTUAL PAIN, BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT COULD HAPPEN, AND I'M ALWAYS AFRAID …

I looked around and straightened a little in the seat. I had no sense of time elapsed, no idea how long I'd been asleep, or what startled me into wakefulness. The plane's cabin was cool and dim and quite comfortable, and the ongoing drone of the engines just a low hum in the background. Other passengers were relaxing; sleeping, talking quietly, reading, or looking out their ports at wispy cloud formations and patches of ocean and small islands below.

My attention wandered to the row of seats opposite me, and to the aisle between. The pain in my leg and foot had morphed to a rhythmic ache that made me hitch with every other drumbeat. I knew it was part of what awakened me. I needed to take a pill. In an effort to contain it I gripped the thigh muscle hard.

In the aisle, half hidden by the seats in front of me, stood a kid: a boy, maybe ten years old. His skin was the color of mahogany, and his hair a mass of ringlets that framed his face like a snarl of tangled black fishing line. His eyes reminded me of two eight-balls on a pool table, except maybe three sizes smaller. He stood looking at me with a frown, as though I might be the most puzzling creature he'd ever seen.

I frowned back, willing him to go-the-hell away. He didn't move, except to step a little closer to the line of seats I occupied. He glanced from my shoeless foot, atop the pillow, to my face and back again. His large eyes were full of questions and a shielded empathy that was hard to ignore. Our eyes locked and held. "Did you want something?" I asked, figuring him to be just one more dumb kid, curious to know: "what happened to your foot?"

He paused for a moment, and I saw the consternation in his eyes. Could he approach me? Or not. Then his hand rose from his side and he held out a black cell phone that I instantly recognized as mine. "Is this yours, sir? It was in the aisle and I was afraid somebody would step on it."

 _*Oh shit!*_

I nodded. "Yeah, it's mine. Must have dropped it. I drop things a lot. Thanks."

His voice, with a soft Jamaican lilt, was pleasantly melodic. He nodded. "You're welcome."

I looked at him a little closer. The tone of his voice did not coincide with that of a ten-year-old, and I was suddenly gripped in the intrigue of a puzzle. I watched him deciding how to get the phone to me. The man and woman in the seats behind me were both asleep, judging from the buzz-saw sound, and I sensed he was reluctant to come anywhere near my foot. It was sort of a standoff.

He stood there. I sat there. Finally I sighed like the most put-upon cripple in the world, and pulled myself upright against the pillow and the bulkhead, which freed up the aisle seat for him to enter the row and sit down. Which he did.

He was a _little_ guy. I mean _little_! Too small, even, for his body to match his voice. When he settled himself in the seat, his feet still dangled off the deck. Also, his face told me he was older than he looked. "How old are you, pal?" I lightened up on the frown and appraised him with interest.

He sighed, as though he'd been waiting for the question. He stared hard at my sock foot, then lifted his eyes to my face. "I'm almost fourteen, sir." He reached across and extended my cell phone with a quick, shy smile. I took it and nodded in appreciation. He continued to look at me, unabashed. The shyness turned to expectation in his eyes.

 _*Congenital hypothyroidism, a thyroid hormone deficiency. Wilson's disease … check copper levels. Audrey's medium-chain-acyl-CoA dehydro-genase deficiency. Sickle cell disease?*_ My inbred mental encyclopedia of diagnostics took over my brain for a moment.

He tilted his head and stared at me. "Are you a … _doctor_?"

I felt my eyebrows coming together in the middle. Total surprise. "Why do you ask me that?" I was intrigued. This was getting interestinger and interestinger.

He smiled a little. "Because my dad is a doctor, and sometimes he looks at me exactly the same way you just did. I know … I'm too short to be thirteen, and I can feel your little wheels turning. Dad says I'm 'in transition'. I'm either going to have a growth spurt soon, of if not, he's going to start taking me for more tests.

"So I'm small. That's okay. Maybe I'll be a jockey when I grow up. I don't mind being the little guy. I get away with murder sometimes … and you wouldn't believe how fast I am."

"Oh, I believe you," I said. "You're pretty smart too … for a kid. And you're right; I am a doctor. So what's your name? Mine's Greg." I decided to get the formal stuff out of the way so I could pick his brain …

"I'm Moscha … and you're pretty sore, aren't you?" His eyes grew darker as he looked into my face, still unabashed. He was looking for honest answers.

It wasn't like he had no clues to go by, since my crutches were leaning against the bulkhead beside me, my right foot had no shoe on it, and the contours of the elastic bandaging showed plainly through my jeans. "Nope," I finally said. "Doesn't hurt at all."

He ignored me as though I hadn't spoken. "How bad?"

He was not only smart, but brazen. Not asking the nonsense questions another kid might ask. No wide-eyed look of immodest childish curiosity. No eager need to know of bloody accidents or traumatic, crippling injuries. I had the feeling he was on a mission, and for some reason I answered honestly.

"Bad enough."

"I can help, maybe. Your foot looks like it's trying to spasm."

He was right. The tendons were tightening, and my big toe was lower. He had noticed.

"You're obviously not a doctor," I said.

"No, but my dad taught me some cool stuff …" Slowly, he reached across to touch my foot.

The defensive instinct grabbed me and I began to lurch away from him.

His palm settled on my instep. "Don't scrunch up. It'll just hurt worse."

I backed off, resettled on the pillow, reappraising. "Okay …" Don't ask me why, but I allowed it.

"You think because I'm a kid, I don't know anything."

"Nope. You've already proved otherwise. What are you going to do?"

"Can I touch your foot? I think I can make it relax."

I hesitated a moment. The infarction had given me intermittent foot problems which were slowly worsening, and about which I had told no one. "It's sore."

He nodded. "I can tell."

I nodded back. "Be careful please …"

He placed my foot across his lap and I held my breath. I saw him concentrating. I tensed; balled my hands into fists. Couldn't help it.

Moscha's left palm settled more securely across my instep.

The large knuckle of his opposite thumb settled perfectly against the arch of my foot, and I knew what was coming. A grown man would have used both thumbs, but Moscha's method was almost as effective. He sensed I was having neuropathic pain. I froze. The discomfort was intense, but only momentary. His small, strong hand made a hard fist and pressed relentlessly into the flexor brevis, centered between the abductor minim and the abductor hallucis.

I moaned with relief as the numbing sensation rushed through the nerves of my foot, up into the calf and on to the troublesome thigh. It was as liberating and releasing as an orgasm, but I couldn't say that.

Moscha released the pressure just as quickly. There and gone, leaving my senses heightened and the pain in my leg almost nonexistent. I buckled in the middle like a deflated balloon, and my sore ribs gave me hell for that. But it made Moscha smile.

I remembered a long time ago when Wilson had done the same thing for me during a nasty bout with break-through pain. I had buckled on him then as I had done with Moscha now. I had since forgotten. Wilson did many good and kind things for me over the years that I never gave him credit for.

Moscha left me awhile to go back to tell his father where he was, and to no-doubt brag that he had just helped another doctor. I turned in my seat and pulled myself upright, enjoying the temporary respite as long as it lasted. When he came back, I was sitting up with my leg stretched out on the seat. He laughed and called me a "Big Faker", and I pretended to be insulted.

After that he launched into his life story … which I couldn't _wait_ to hear … telling me about his life in New York City and his father's position at Sloan Kettering Hospital. Moscha had been born in Jamaica, hence the accent. His dad had taken the position soon after his mother died in an automobile accident the year before. It was just the two of them now. Once a year they visited his maternal grandparents in Kingston so Moscha could spend time with family and reunite with friends. This year they had taken a side trip to San Juan. They would soon debark and register at their hotel.

As it turned out, when he was much youngerhis father had been approached by members of a drug cartel and offered a lot of money to transport drugs in and out of Jamaica. His father had turned them down and laughed in their faces. They threatened him and he went to the authorities with dates, places and names. Now some of them were in jail. His dad changed their surname to "Rodriguez" and they'd fled to New York.

I suggested that Moscha might not want to be running around telling total strangers any of those things. Not all strangers could be trusted … and how did he know I wouldn't go right out and tell the drug lords who he and his dad were, and where they had gone, and what their new name was … ?

But Moscha laughed again. "Oh Greg, you are so funny. You are not a stranger. You are hurt and you cannot run fast. My dad and I would catch you and hurt you more if you told. You cannot betray me, for I have touched your foot. Now you are better and we are friends. One must sometimes trust one's gut, no?"

I let him run on without comment, surprisingly impressed with his wisdom. He told me how his father had showed him a video of the ligament and muscle procedure he had used on me. His dad was worried about him being small, and began taking him for tests; even to the point of inquiring about growth hormones and other breakthrough treatments.

At that point I assured him that experimental procedures were dangerous, because I had tried it once, and was still suffering the consequences. "Depending on how you feel about yourself on the inside, being a little guy isn't a bad thing …"

He shrugged and laughed. "I don't mind being a little guy," he admitted. "Because little guys can get the pretty girls too, sometimes. It's my dad who's worried about it. He thinks I'll get picked on and beat up by big guys the rest of my life. But I don't. I don't try to make a big deal around the other guys, and I don't have a problem. It's just as easy to be nice as it is to be a jerk. Sometimes little guys get beat up because they're jerks … not because they're little."

I looked at him with a great deal of admiration, feeling a little picked on sometimes myself. How had he figured out at such a tender age, some of the stuff I'd been trying to figure out my whole life? He didn't know he'd hit a nerve with me. I'm admittedly a jerk, but he couldn't have known that going in. We'd never seen each other before an hour or so ago, and would probably never see each other again. I guessed I just looked like a jerk to the rest of the world, not to Moscha.

It was another puzzle. The kid was a lot smarter than he looked. He'd said some very valid things that I should probably take a look at. Like getting the hell out of Dodge and adopting a whole new identity. Maybe I could figure out who Gregory House was by looking at him from the perspective of someone entirely different.

 _*Hmmmmm …*_

A thought occurred:

Maybe if I changed my name … "Dr. Somebody-Else". I could write some brilliant articles for JAMA … get a new name out there. Maybe Wilson would eventually catch on … catch up. Then I remembered when he had told me about his childhood friend, Kyle Calloway, (who had the hair, the mustache, the car … and got all the girls.) Was Wilson that smart? Maybe. Couldn't hurt to try. I had to admit I missed the hell out of him, dammit!

I met Moscha's father when we landed in San Juan. Alfonzo Rodriguez was slender and handsome and a much larger, lighter copy of his savvy son.

I was back in the wheelchair again to disembark, but I asked the attendant to borrow the chair for a short time so I could talk with them. I got my way, of course, because I'm such a delightful cripple.

We went through the line while our passports were stamped and we passed through the security gates. At least Moscha and Fonzie did. The security people took one look at me in the wheelchair and the crutches attached to the back, and my sock foot and my backpak with the cane sticking out the top, and passed me through without comment while father and son watched and laughed.

We shook hands and parted only when a Citibus arrived to take on passengers and they had to leave. Moscha's face was in the rear window and he was still waving as the bus disappeared in traffic and they were gone from sight. I had a strange feeling that I had not seen the last of them.

I returned the wheelchair and picked up the crutches. Stomped my way slowly back into the terminal. I needed to collect my suitcases and check them somewhere until I could locate a private pilot for the trip to Barbados.

When the grunt work was finished, I stopped by one of the customs offices and picked up paperwork and an application for a formal name change. I decided to sit on them awhile until I could think it out. No use jumping into this until I had some idea what I was doing. It might be ripe for Gregory House to disappear into thin air for a while and be replaced by some dude who looked at life a little differently than old Greg did. Or it might not. I had a lot of time to kill while things calmed down in Princeton, New Jersey. No one needed to know what rabbit hole the bastard had jumped into …

While I was there I inquired about a cashier's check made out to Gregory House. It was there, of course, and I showed my I. D. and passport and signed for it. Would this make me traceable? I didn't care. I was surprised to find the voucher was in the amount of $45,000 and change. I endorsed it; asked for cash. American. I shoved the huge wad of money deep into a side pocket of the backpak, nodded and turned away.

It took me a half hour of phone calls to find the right pilot. The man sounded like an intelligent sort. He told me to take a taxi and meet his plane on the beach near the golf course in an hour. Three hundred bucks, American. Up front. Agreed.

I cleaned myself up and shaved in the nearest rest room. I checked the bandages on my leg and was relieved to see that after three days of no weight-bearing, the edges of the wound were pinked up as they should be, and showing less edema. I was so relieved that my eyes began to water. I wondered whether I would dare resume use of the cane.

I replaced the gel pad and the gauze pads and adhesive tape with new ones, along with peroxide and Merthiolate. This time I wrapped only a single elastic bandage, leaving myself the ability to bend my knee again … if I were very, very careful.

I donned fresh jeans, underwear, socks, and my sports jacket. I dug the right sneaker out of the backpak and slipped it loosely onto my foot.

When the time came, I summoned a taxi, paid the driver to rescue and load my luggage, and I met the grizzled pilot and his ancient pontoon plane on the beach beside the golf course at the specified time.

Behind me, in San Juan's air terminal, in the men's rest room just off the concourse, a pair of dilapidated aluminum crutches leaned forlornly against the wall in one of the toilet stalls.

The backpak was a lot less clumsy without the shoe and cane to weigh it down.

My leg hurt a lot more with only the cane for support, but by damn, it was worth it!

19


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Bumpy Landings"

ACROSS THE EXPANSE OF SCRUB BRUSH AND LEAF-LITTERED SAND WE STOOD AND APPRAISED EACH OTHER.

THE TAXI DRIVER HAD DUMPED MY TWO SUITCASES … AND ME … AS SOON AS HE SAW THE YELLOW SINGLE-ENGINE PLANE BEGIN TO CIRCLE FOR A LANDING. I STEADIED THE CANE BENEATH ME AND WATCHED THE TAXI AS IT HEAVED OUT OF SIGHT DOWN THE BEACH IN A CLOUD OF OILY SMOKE. THE DRIVER WAS A SURLY ASSHOLE WHO HAD SNICKERED WHEN HE SAW MY CANE. I DIDN'T TIP HIM.

I TURNED MY ATTENTION TO THE SMALL PLANE AS IT DESCENDED, BUCKING CROSSWINDS FOR A FEW MOMENTS, AND THEN KISSING THE WATER LIKE A SWAN CARESSING A POND. THE PILOT BANKED AND KILLED HIS ENGINE AS THE BIG PONTOONS CUT THROUGH THE BREAKWATER, GLIDING TO A LONG, SMOOTH STANDSTILL THROUGH THE LAPPING OF THE SMALL WAVELETS ITS LANDING HAD CREATED.

UNLESS I MISSED MY GUESS, THE PLANE WAS A PIPER SOMETHING, PROBABLY MADE IN PENNSYLVANIA SOON AFTER THE WAR. IT WAS OLD. THE PONTOONS WERE GIGANTIC: HOME-MADE FROM SHEET METAL, NO DOUBT.

I COULD SEE THE OUTLINE OF A MAN'S SCRUFFY FACE BEHIND THE YOKE AT THE PILOT'S SEAT. HE WAS FRAMED IN THE BACKLIGHT OF THE EVENING SUN, AND I COULDN'T MAKE OUT HIS FEATURES. I WAS LEANING HARD ON MY CANE; ACHING, WEAK AND TOTTERY. I SQUINTED ACROSS AT HIM AS HE THREW OPEN THE COCKPIT DOOR, STEPPED OUT ONTO THE WING STRUT AND MADE HIS WAY DOWN THE LADDER TO THE PONTOON, THEN JUMPED TO THE WET SAND WITH A SPLASH.

I WONDERED HOW THE LIVING HELL I WAS SUPPOSED TO GET MYSELF UP THERE AND INTO THAT THING. I WOULD NEED AN ELEVATOR OR A MARK LIFT. OR A SKYHOOK …

MEANWHILE, I STARED AT HIM AND HE STARED AT ME. HIS WEATHERED FACE REMINDED ME OF CROODILE DUNDEE, EXCEPT OLDER AND WHITER. HE WORE A RAGGED DENIM VEST OVER A SHIRT THAT HAD ONCE BEEN BLUE, AND WHOSE SLEEVES HAD LONG AGO FRAYED AWAY. TAN CARGO SHORTS WITH POCKETS THAT WERE SHREDDED AT THE BOTTOMS, HUNG OFF HIS SKINNY HIPS. DILAPIDATED SANDALS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN THROWN TOGETHER FROM STRIPS OF RUBBER AND HUNKS OF BULL ROPE COMPLETED HIS OUTFIT. I WONDERED IF HE HAD EVER BEEN ON 'SURVIVOR'. BUT I GUESSED NOT. HE LOOKED MORE INTELLIGENT THAN THAT.

Some things, however, didn't quite fit the profile. His beard and mustache were meticulously trimmed. His fingernails were white and smooth; not dirt-encrusted and jagged from hard manual work. His hair was well groomed, though windblown … and his eyes were filled with merriment and curiosity … and were even bluer than mine.

I had the thought that he resembled a character in an adventure novel: paid to play to the tourist trade and fly a dilapidated airplane to give 'em a thrill and continue playing that character until he took leave of the tourists. At night he would probably change into casual clothes and have cocktails with a bevy of beautiful women at his elbow … something like that ... probably what I would do if I were him …

As I watched him, he was watching me also; legs splayed, both hands occupied, coiling up a considerable length of strong, reinforced rope, hand-to-elbow, 'round and 'round. He was studying me closely with an eye of mounting appraisal and assessment. He'd seen the cane. Saw me leaning into it, little or no weight on my right side. I needed to get the hell out of there and away from the searing heat of a late afternoon sun.

I saw him place the coil of rope on the point of the near pontoon and begin to walk in my direction. We didn't speak for a few moments, but when he finally said something; I knew exactly what it was going to be. Or at least pretty damn close.

"How much weight can you actually put on that?" He asked, pointing to my bum leg.

"Enough to get me where I want to go," I answered. "If I don't want to go too far …"

" … what I thought. Barbados, right?"

"Yeah."

"Got the money?"

"Yeah." I dug in my pocket and pulled out three wrinkled hundreds, held them out toward him as he came closer.

He reached out, took them, stuffed them into his own pocket … which actually did have a bottom to it. "Thanks. They call me 'Packy'. And you are … ?"

"I'm … ah … K-Kyle Calloway." I almost bit my lip. I'd come very close to saying: 'Greg House'."

He looked up at me with a snicker of derision. "If you're gonna be callin' yourself 'Kyle Calloway', you should burn the name into your brain with a running iron so you can say it as soon as somebody asks. Otherwise they know you aint no more 'Kyle Calloway' than I am. Y'see what I'm sayin'?"

Somehow I found the humility to look embarrassed. He had called my bluff within ten seconds. "Yeah, I see _exactly_ what you're saying. I won't screw it up again. Nice to meet you, Packy."

He grinned. "Same here, Kyle. Now let's see about getting you onto the damn plane and out of here."

He lugged my suitcases across to the Piper, walking slow enough to ensure that I could keep up with him. The storage compartment was behind the seats and its access door was low enough that Packy could hoist both bags aboard without much trouble.

I'd been leaning against the near pontoon, holding onto the bottom rung of the ladder. I'd dropped the backpack on the sand beside me, and it was close to getting sloshed with the water of an incoming tide. Packy came back to where I stood then, picked up the backpack and asked me if there was anything breakable in it.

 _*Yeah, my laptop.*_ But I shook my head _,_ _*No.*_ He flung it up through the plane's open cockpit door onto the seat. "Do you have any issues with your other leg?" He asked, pointing.

I shook my head. "No, just the right."

"Good. Now here's how I figure we can get you up there." He reached for the coil of rope and drew it down from the pontoon. "The other end of this is attached to a winch behind the passenger seat. I'm going to make a loop and knot it close to the end. You step into it with your good foot, and as the rope tightens, it will lift you into the cockpit. Maneuver up the ladder with both hands and let your bad leg hang loose. When you're even with the seat, holler. I'll stop the winch and give you time to get inside and over to the passenger seat. Can you do that okay?"

I grinned. "I can," I said.

He was already tying a loop in the rope, holding it down low enough that I could grab the ladder and fit my left shoe into it.

The rope tightened as the winch engaged, and thirty seconds later, hand over hand, I was perched in the pilot's chair looking down at Packy, who stood below looking back with a smug expression on his face. I removed my shoe from the loop and pulled myself across to the passenger's seat, hefting the backpack across in front of me. By the time I got settled and the seat belt hooked around my waist, Packy had tossed the coil of rope into the back, settled himself in, slammed the cockpit door and hit the magneto that set the old engine into smoky, vibrating motion.

We skimmed along on top of the water, outward bound, with Packy dragging back on the yoke until I thought the vibration would tear the thing apart. Then she lifted. Freed from the drag of water, this little albatross became an eagle; lighter than air, strong as a B-52. We rose like a kite riding the wind. Packy banked to the north, giving a full view of the huge San Juan airport where I had debarked two hours before; then leveled out in a south-easterly direction. Below us the ocean was blue and green and turquoise and teal and aqua by nature's delineation; the area still unspoiled by the hands of man. Looking down from the cockpit, I was no doubt wide-eyed and open-mouthed as we flew over St. Barts on the path to Barbados.

The world from this height was transformed in a way I'd only witnessed once before in my lifetime. When I was quite small, my dad rented a small plane near one of the marine bases where he was stationed, and he took me up to show me 'the world through the wrong end of a telescope', by his definition.

We flew over towns and farmlands, dirt roads and highways, race tracks and railroad tracks, back yards and junkyards. He pointed out the house where we lived, and flew by (not _over_ ,) the big Marine base where he tested the newest aircraft for the armed forces. It had been one of the best days I could ever remember spending with my dad.

Coming back to the moment, I tilted my head upward and blinked away moisture at the strong memories. If only John and I hadn't taken that wrong turn when I was twelve. My dad was, after all, the only Dad I would ever get. At this late date all the biology crap that had bittered me and changed the course of my life so long ago didn't amount to a tinker's damn now.

My hand clutched my thigh suddenly as the muscle grabbed tight and didn't let go. I massaged it vigorously and hitched a tight breath of pain. A moment later I felt Packy's fingers brush my upper arm and my eyes flew to him in panic. Too late. He had heard me gasp and saw me wince, and there was concern riding in the look he gave me. I smiled, but it was more a grimace than anything else.

"What's going on?" He asked. "You okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Sometimes I get spasms in what's left of the muscle. It hurts like hell, but it's usually temporary. Sorry you had to see me squirm …"

"Why are you apologizing for something you have no control over?"

"Because some people get grossed out by it. Unfortunately, up here I can't open a door and go hide in the next room until it passes."

"That's ridiculous. What do you mean … 'what's-left-of-the-muscle'?"

* _Oh here we go again …*_

"I had a blood clot that clogged the artery in my thigh. They tried to bypass it, but it didn't work. The surrounding tissue developed what's called 'muscle death'. So they opened up my leg again and scraped away the dead muscle. Sewed me back up. My nerve bundles were truncated and sometimes they misfire. When it finally healed I became what's known in the genteel vernacular, as 'physically disabled'.

"So now I make an ass of myself in public on a regular basis because when the muscle goes into spasm, the pain is so bad that it turns my brain to jelly. Gamblers have been known to make book on how long I'll last through 'em before I scream … and what time it will be when I flatline."

His look of disgust was scathing. "Why do you say stuff like that? That's almost as bad as the guff you handed me about 'Kyle Calloway'. I know you're in pain. It was obvious from the minute I first set eyes on you. I'm not that stupid. You act like you're ashamed of your disability, and that's dumb. Do you have medication with you that will help? If not, there are doctors …"

I was already reaching for the backpack and my meds. The first problem was the fact that the bandages under my pant leg were becoming too tight. Another thing was that I had waited too long to take my Vicodin. I had put it off and put it off, and now …

I held up my free hand to stop him. "I don't need a doctor, Packy. I _**AM**_ a doctor. The problem is, the medical profession isn't advanced enough to heal nerves and body parts that have been ripped out by the roots. The surgical team thought I might croak before they finished the procedure. They didn't want a dead patient on their watch, so they hurried … and this leg is the result.

"I say stuff like that because it's a defense mechanism, I guess. I hate what my life has become, and even more, I hate the looks of disgust and pity that I keep getting day after day after day. So I turned into an asshole to keep people away from me. Only thing is, it worked too well. Nobody wants anything to do with me anymore. Two weeks ago I had to have another surgery. Therefore, 'Kyle Calloway' is going to hide out on Barbados so my leg will have a chance to heal better than this, and I'll be able to rest and take care of it. I'm trying like hell to change my life and get out of 'asshole' mode. It isn't easy … so … I apologize for my lousy attitude and the sarcastic crap awhile ago. I have to remember that there are still some people who do give a damn, and who didn't come to the circus just to see the freak show. I'm sorry."

"Apology noted and accepted," he said. "Let me know if I can help …"

I fished around in the backpack until I found the Vicodin. I drew it out, spilled two pills into my palm and took them dry. The usual procedure.

Packy looked at me warily for a moment, and then I noticed that the plane was descending. The conversation ended when I turned to look out the cockpit window. The island of Barbados was approaching fast. Dead ahead. It was a B-I-G island. The plane dipped to starboard and the sound of the engine went down a notch.

Packy swung her around in a wide loop, dropping quickly now, and suddenly I saw trees and buildings rushing past. Then there was a jungle of coconut palms and palmetto trees; thick bushes with bright flowers. Ground vines and scrub brush fought for dominion in the sandy soil.

We were low, gliding down along the beach. I could see people looking up and watching the little yellow airplane as it settled onto the water with twin wakes appearing on the surface behind it. Packy cut the engine and guided the Piper gently onto a sandbar almost directly in front of what looked like a miniature restaurant-bar-dance club. The natives probably called it a Tiki Bar. It had a cement slab-dance floor in front with cocktail tables lining the sides, bright colored lights hung from surrounding trees, casting brightness onto the area that harbored a small crowd of what looked like tourists. After watching the plane glide to a stop on the beach, their attention returned to business, and I decided that Packy and his little plane were probably a common sight. My leg, fortunately, had begun to calm down under the influence of the Vicodin, and I watched Packy for a clue as to what would happen next.

I grabbed my backpack and stepped into the loop of the rope as he took me off the plane in the same manner he'd used to winch me on. My feet touched the sand and I got my cane under me. I leaned on the pontoon to get my bearings. I was stiff from sitting in the uncomfortable cockpit seat for so long, and my bladder was screaming to be emptied. My leg was weak from the spasm and I was aware of Packy's scrutiny … probably making sure I didn't collapse before we made it over to the bar.

Leaving my suitcases on the plane for now, he walked beside me across the expanse of sand and onto the cement patio of the strange little two-car-garage-size building. Calypso music, laughter and loud conversation emanated outward as we moved through the small crowd of people at the outside tables.

Inside, people paused to stare as Packy pointed the way to a hallway where he said the men's room was located. I gathered myself in an effort to minimize my limp, and headed down there. Behind me I heard Packy tell somebody behind the bar: "Call Hooley …"

The steady ache I was feeling indicated that the time was long past for a loosening of the elastic bandage that was making my gait a stiff-legged shamble. I sat in the stall and relieved myself, pushed the jeans down around my ankles and unrolled the bunched elastic. The wound's edges were still pinked up and in healing mode, as it should have been. I would have to deal with the pulled stitches later when we arrived at the beach shack I had rented for a year … wherever-the-hell it was located in relation to here.

I rolled the second elastic bandage, stuffed it in my backpak with the other one and stopped at the sink to wash up. I felt lightheaded and unsteady when I turned off the water and looked in the mirror at my gaunt face. Couldn't be helped. The cleanup job I had done in San Juan had worn off completely, and I looked like death warmed over. My sports jacket and shirt were both wrinkled beyond redemption, and the jeans looked as though I'd slept in them, which I had.

I started back down the hallway toward the bar. The misery in my leg ramped up to the point that I had to clench the cane in my right hand while the fingers of my left scrabbled for purchase on the wall at the left. Moscha's 'thunder therapy' had completely worn off and the persistent pain was back.

I wondered if I would make it all the way out there before I went on my ass …

25


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"The Cabin"

COMING BACK THROUGH THE DARKENED HALLWAY SEEMED LIKE TWENTY-FIVE MILES RATHER THAN TWENTY-FIVE FEET. MY BODY WAS IN REVOLT AGAINST MOVEMENT THAT BEGAN ABOUT THE SAME TIME I WOBBLED OUT THE DOOR OF THE JOHN. MY RIBS WERE STILL SORE AND THE WEIGHT OF THE BACKPAK DIDN'T HELP. MY LEG WAS GROWING WEAKER AS THE MUSCLES CLENCHED AND SWELLED WITHOUT THE ELASTIC. MY KNEE THREATENED TO GIVE OUT AND SEND ME REELING TO THE FLOOR. I HAD TO STOP TWICE AND LEAN INTO THE WALL TO GET MY BEARINGS. RED SPOTS DANCED CRAZILY IN THE AIR BEFORE ME. I'M NOT SURE IF THE STARK REMINDER OF THE BLOOD ON MY PANTS PSYCHED ME OUT, OR IF SOMETHING MORE SERIOUS WAS BREWING AND MAKING THE PAIN RAMP UP.

THERE WERE ECHOES OF _HER_ VOICE AND WILSON'S VOICE SWIRLING IN MY CONSCIOUSNESS, STILL INSISTING THAT MY PAIN WAS MOSTLY IN MY HEAD. I'D BEEN HALLUCINATING ON A DAILY BASIS THEN, AND THE LEG PAIN WAS MAKING ME CRAZY. THEY BOTH INSISTED IT WASN'T REAL. I WISHED THE SAME AFFLICTION COULD BE VISITED UPON THEM TO MAKE THEM EXPERIENCE IT FOR WHAT IT WAS IN THAT REALITY. JUST SO THEY'D KNOW I WASN'T AN OUTRIGHT LIAR. AT THE SAME TIME THIS WENT ON, I'D BEEN WORKING ON A DIFFICULT CASE AND THE PAIN WAS MAKING A SHAMBLES OF MY CONCENTRATION. I BEGGED FOR A MORPHINE INJECTION INTO MY SPINE TO HELP ME COPE. I EVEN DROPPED MY DRAWERS AND LET HER GAZE UPON THE UGLY SCAR SHE HAD HELPED PERPETRATE. IN A MOMENT OF REMORSE SHE FINALLY AGREED AND GAVE ME A PLACEBO … WHICH WORKED. IT BOOSTED MY ENDORPHINE LEVELS FOR ABOUT AN HOUR. THEN I CRASHED. I'D TRUSTED HER TO HELP ME AND SHE BETRAYED THAT TRUST BECAUSE SHE WAS SO CERTAIN SHE WAS RIGHT.

So here I am again: alone, vulnerable, angry; feeling my clumsy way through a long strange hallway. I exist on the outer fringe of a crowd of raucous, complacent people who don't know me and don't give a shit. Here, in this strange isolated corner of the world … which I already regret intruding upon … I have no idea what the hell I was expecting … **not this!** … and no idea what was going to happen, even within the next few minutes.

I made it to the corner of the bar, staggering around the end into the lights and the music and the laughter. I leaned against an empty bar stool, panting, trembling; both hands bearing down on the cane to keep myself upright. My ribs felt like somebody was playing marimba on them. The room swayed as I tried to glance around. The bartender was serving drinks at the other end of the counter and didn't see me. Other patrons did, but stared blankly for a moment and returned to their drinks. The sun had set and the place changed to evening mode. I saw colored lights that all melded together in my perception, sending my senses spinning like a child's top.

People at the outside tables had either left the area or gravitated to the inside, and the Calypso music was intrusive. So was the accompanying jangle of noisy conversation. My head pounded, joining into the throbbing trio with my ribcage and my leg.

I looked around at the sea of faces, trying to determine which person looked the most like a "Hooley".

My head spun again and the lights blurred. Music I might have enjoyed at some other time and place became a cacophonous clatter between my temples. I felt the room narrowing into a black hole as my consciousness began to flag … nothing I could do to stop it …

When the fog lifted, I found myself sitting in a chair near the back of the room, off to the side behind a table filled with stacks of paper plates, paper cups, napkins, and other restaurant supplies. It had obviously become a shield from probing stares by curious onlookers. My cane was hooked over the tabletop beside me and the backpak, I noticed, was in a heap on the floor. My hand was clamped onto my thigh like a vise, and the dark red stain had spread a little more.

 _*What the hell … ?*_

"Hello Kyle Calloway. You frightened us for a moment, Mon …"

When I looked up, cringing from the brightness of the lights and the possibility of being overwhelmed by the crowd, my gaze settled on a pair of eyes that looked like two lumps of hard coal. Not the soft brown of Wilson's or the bright billiard balls like Moscha's, but pure Pennsylvania Anthracite.

As my field of vision widened, I found that the eyes were set deeply into a long, narrow face about the color of walnut. His ears were prominent, his lips wide, and the teeth that lurked behind a friendly, curious smile, were long and white and even. Everything below his broad nose was hidden behind a coal-black beard so meticulously sculpted that it might have been part of an ebony carving. He was wearing a sleeveless tee shirt, cutoffs and red sneakers. On his head sat a hand-knitted multi-colored ski cap, and when he moved his head, a little bell tinkled.

I stared at the cap, stared at the rest of him as my vision cleared. "Hooley, I presume. Jingle bells. How did you know my name?"

His smile widened, and I thought for a moment the big white teeth might jump right out and bite me. "I spoke to Amos," he said. "He is the owner here, and the bar tender. And I spoke to Packy, the man who brought you to the island. Packy told me you had gone to the rest room. When you came out, I saw right away that you have a … problem … with your leg. I am Hooley Puli, and my young nephew knitted me this beautiful hat with the bell. It is there because he says I prowl around like a big black cat, and the bell tells people where I am. What can I do to help you, Mon?"

I squinted, head pounding in rhythm with the music of the juke box up front. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about little bells or who was helping whom, or anything else. "I rented a shack on the beach … thatway. Up the beach." I indicated the direction I was talking about by lifting my right thumb. "I need to get there and I'm in no shape to walk. If you can do me the honors, you can name your price."

"Ah," he said. "I can do this for you, Mon. Packy has already put your luggage in my dune buggy. I charge clients by the month, you see. The exchange of paper currency on a daily basis is cause for concern by the authorities. I have many clients."

I stared at him in surprise, which I tried to cover quickly with a sarcastic snort. "Oh shit!"

He blinked at my words, and I rephrased. "You have me at a disadvantage, my friend. I'm a little off center at the moment, so if you're a drug dealer, I don't want to hear about it. Can we go? I … uh … need to do some reconstructive surgery on this mess …" I swept my hand over the widening stain on my pants.

His eyes widened. "Surely you do not intend to treat your leg yourself?"

"If I don't, who will? I can't let it go septic, or it'll be a worse mess than it already is."

"I will gladly treat you if you will allow me. I am neither a drug dealer nor a drug user. I am a Registered APRN. Shall we go?" I had insulted him, but he moved in on my right side anyway and picked up my backpak from where I … or somebody … had dropped it. From somewhere near, friend Packy moved out of the shadows and stood beside Hooley. Both of them were rolling their eyes at the fact that I was acting a little huffy. Each man stooped to grasp me by the arms and lift me from the chair.

The room became very quiet as we began to move slowly, the two of them supporting me from both sides as we began the journey from the back of the room, through the parting crowd toward the steps that led outside and, presumably, to the dune buggy Hooley had spoken of.

Behind us, someone called: "Come back again, Kyle!"

At first there were hoots of laughter, and a series of cat calls. But the laughter became applause and the cat calls turned to shouts of encouragement as we made our clumsy way down the steps and outside.

At the dune buggy's open door, I paused to look back. There were cheers and laughter and applause still coming from the crowd. I realized they were actually cheering the fact that I had made it to the nearest mode of transportation without going on my ass, and were encouraging me to come back. I stared into the crowd and quirked one side of my mouth; the best I could do at the moment.

Packy and Hooley settled me into the dune buggy, handed up my paraphernalia and closed the door. "Take care of yourself, Kyle," Packy said. "I gotta go. It's way past my bedtime. Be seein' ya …"

I nodded. "Thanks, Packy."

"Don't mention it." And he was gone.

Hooley took me on a two-minute ride up the beach in that big orange dune buggy, its color only visible when he turned on its running lights. I was aware that I was hanging onto the dashboard with both hands, and when we pulled up and stopped, Hooley told me to stay put until he came back for me. Wobbly and half nauseous, I had no trouble complying.

I looked around, but everything was black as the inside of a tomb. The only light came from the half- moon shining on the ocean and reflecting outward on sand and some ragged vegetation. The slow movement of the water threatened to make me toss my cookies. I quickly closed my eyes and sat very still.

I heard him start what had to be a generator of some kind, and the next thing I was aware of as the lights came up, was a tight-looking square building on a platform about three feet off the sand. The thing sat crouching woefully beside the spot where we were parked.

The "nice little cabin" rose out of the darkness like the Loch Ness monster. I blinked, focusing my eyes. Was _this_ the place I was paying a grand a month for? A cigar box on stilts? Lights that worked on a generator? Better be a big-fucking-generator! I wondered what might be around there that had come straight out of the Stone Age or across on the Ark …

Hooley came running around the corner of the building and jingled up to my side. "Let there be lights," he said with a lilt in his voice. "The motor will quiet down after it runs awhile. Right now it's pumping water for you and charging the water heater. A hot shower would feel very good, no? Are you ready to go inside?"

I nodded, speechless, trying to figure out how one lousy generator could handle everything he'd just mentioned. Had to be a miracle-worker of an engineer lurking around here somewhere.

A thought popped into my head like a light bulb, giving me an instant case of the giggles:

 _*Jim, I'm a doctor, not an engineer!*_

I know he got me out of the buggy and up the steps to the inside, but I don't remember how. I was close to incoherent. He said I'd had some drinks with he and Packy and Amos the bartender and two old guys at the bar, but I couldn't make myself remember.

Hooley helped me into an old rattan chair with my leg propped on its matching footstool. The only good thing about it was, the pain in my leg and ribs were easing a little and I was almost comfortable. And sloppy drunk.

He brought in my backpak and the two suitcases and deposited them at the front of the room where they'd be out of the way. In addition to my own things, he'd brought along a big satchel that looked a lot like a canvas bowling bag. This he brought over to where I sat and dropped it onto the floor beside my chair.

I looked at it. Then up to him. My eyes wouldn't focus, so I closed one, pirate-style.

"Medical kit," he said, grinning. "I am a member of the medical profession, no?"

I nodded, senses weaving in and out just enough to pay small attention to what he said. I struggled to sit up, but he restrained me with a touch to my shoulder. I scowled a question, but did not protest. I was still weak and light-headed. He could have knocked me down by exhaling a forceful breath at my chest.

"First, we get your jacket off. Then the jeans, eh, Mon? Then I shall have a look at your leg if you will permit me … and see how much damage you have done. Agree?"

I nodded. "Yeah." The trepidation was coming back strong.

 _*Anticipation of pain …*_

I unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned the pants while Hooley removed the shoes in a swift, gentle manner that filled me with instant respect. I hardly felt it. He removed my socks in the same manner, and I felt myself beginning to relax. My ankle was puffy. I saw him touch it and take note of it.

"Lift your bottom half so I can slide off the jeans."

I did as he asked and he pulled them off smoothly. He unzipped his bag and removed rubber gloves, surgical scissors and a handful of cotton cloths in sterile bags. I watched, but said nothing. He snapped on the gloves and carefully snipped away the gel and gauze pads I had used to cover the wound.

I heard him hitch a deep breath when he took in the extent of the old scar and the new surgery. "Sweet Jesus! How much of this was their butchery, and how much was your own impatience?" Hooley swept my face with wide eyes.

"About fifty-fifty," I replied, about as close to immediate truth as I had ever come with someone I barely knew.

He turned back and dampened one of the cloths with alcohol, expertly daubing around the edges of the crater-like scar. "You should not put weight on this for a month, Mon. Perhaps longer." He pressed lightly around the edges of the new wound. "Tell me when it hurts," he said.

I was already holding my breath in an effort not to pull away from beneath his hands. "Kee-hrist! Everything you touch hurts. Big time." I struggled to see what he was doing, and found that the area around the wound was puffy where the stitches had torn through the skin.

"It is no wonder you are in pain," he said. "I will give you a shot of Penicillin to fend off infection, and then one other shot … a light dose of morphine perhaps … to numb the pain so you can sleep. I must rewrap this until the swelling goes down and I can replace the stitches. It will be difficult. The light is not adequate to do it tonight. We must wait until morning. I trust you are not allergic to Penicillin?"

"I'm not. Thank you." I did not mention how eager I was for the moment when he would inject me with a shot of happy juice.

"You're welcome. Now please lie still while I administer the injections and rebandage the wound."

I did as he requested, but still clenched and grunted when that mile-long, goddamned needle sank into my gluteus maximus. The morphine injection stung also, but I didn't make me buck and snort. I just leaned eagerly into the moment as my pain began to fade.

Hooley smiled at my reaction and pressed another square of sterile gauze to the inside of my elbow. Lazily I watched him return to the chair in slow motion with a small pail of warm water; clean sterile cloths. I'd heard him moving around the kitchen area and saw what looked like a small square of Ivory soap. The warmth of the water on my leg felt wonderful. He did not lather me near the edge of the wound which, thankfully, had stopped bleeding. A pipe wrench on metal had told me he'd released some kind of valve to produce water. What was its source? The ocean? Not likely. And why were my thoughts all jumbled up like this? Right now it didn't seem important. Nothing did.

The morphine kicked in and I was feeling mellow. Mellower. Mellowest. Whatever.

I kept dozing and waking; dozing and waking. Then dozing and not waking all the way ...

After a time I realized that the lights had dimmed to almost nothing, and somehow I had been transported to a bed, my rebandaged leg elevated on a pillow, and I was comfortable. I could smell the scent of Ivory soap on my skin and the ocean's tang on the breeze. I could hear waves lapping at the shore. All sounds were magnified and I was floating on a cloud somewhere, riding on the trade winds that blew gently across me …

"Don't put weight on your leg, Mon. Sleep now. I will return in the morning, and we will finish the job then."

The tinkle of his hat diminished, and it made me smile stupidly.

I heard the dune buggy's engine fade into the distance.

The world was peaceful, the big island at rest.

Then silence …

31


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"The Morning After"

SOMETHING KEPT BUZZING AROUND MY HEAD. ANNOYING.

I SWATTED AT IT, TRYING TO MAKE IT GO AWAY. IT PERSISTED. ABRUPTLY I WAS SLAPPING ABOUT MY FACE, SCRATCHING AT MY NOSE, EYES AND EARS. BOTH HANDS TANGLED IN SOMETHING FILMY AND STICKY AND UNRECOGNIZABLE. A SPIDER WEB … SOME KIND OF ICKY SHIT. WHITE NYLON FILAMENT?

"AARRRGH …"

I AWOKE FULLY TO MORNING SUNLIGHT POURING THROUGH THE WINDOWS AND BATHING ME IN A PUDDLE OF BRILLIANCE. I WAS IN AN OVERSIZE SINGLE BED WITH MY BUM LEG PARTLY PROPPED ON A PILLOW AND MY NAKED FOOT STUCK UP IN THE AIR LIKE A PERISCOPE ON A SUBMARINE. I WAS STILL WEARING YESTERDAY'S UNDERWEAR. MY LEFT LEG WAS TANGLED IN THE SHEET, AND I HAD TO PEE! I MUST HAVE BEEN RESTLESS DURING THE NIGHT. I STOPPED AND TOOK FURTHER NOTE OF MY SURROUNDINGS. I COULD SEE BARE, DARK, WOODEN PLANKS OVERHEAD, OBSCURED BY SOME KIND OF MILKY FILM, AND I BLINKED IN AN EFFORT TO CLEAR MY VISION.

IT WAS NOT FILM. IT WAS MOSQUITO NETTING. THE BED HAD FOUR TALL POSTS, TO WHICH THE NET WAS ATTACHED AND HUNG DOWNWARD BEYOND THE EDGE OF THE MATTRESS. ABOVE, I COULD MAKE OUT A SMALL SQUADRON OF DEAD INSECTS WHICH SUCCUMBED, NO DOUBT, FROM THEIR INABILITY TO REACH THE LIVE MEAT THAT LAY SNORING BELOW. THE FRONT SCREENDOOR STOOD WIDE OPEN AND I LOOKED BEYOND IT, ACROSS A BROAD PORCH AND DOWN THE BEACH TO THE OCEAN, NOT THAT FAR AWAY. A LINE OF COCONUT PALMS, SPINY BUSHES AND A PALMETTO OR TWO, OBSCURED PART OF MY LINE OF SIGHT. RAW SUNLIGHT REFLECTED OFF THE BRIGHT WATER, ENOUGH TO BLIND SOMEONE IF THEY STARED TOO LONG.

THE BUGS WEREN'T WHAT WOKE ME. IT WAS MORE LIKE A LOW GRUMBLE; THE KIND THAT GETS UNDER YOUR SKIN AND DRIVES YOU NUTS UNTIL YOU SUDDENLY DON'T HEAR IT ANYMORE. KNOW WHAT I MEAN? AFTER YOU GET USED TO IT, IT KIND OF MELTS INTO THE BACKGROUND. THAT KIND OF GRUMBLE.

I finally figured out it was the generator. Hooley said it would quiet down after it ran awhile, and I guessed that this was the "awhile" he was talking about. I laid back again, tried to relax and ignore the thing.

I felt disoriented and dizzy and nauseous. I touched my own skin and it was warm and sticky, like paint that hadn't quite dried.

 _*Uh oh …*_

Looking around, I discovered that this 'cigar-box-on-stilts' was bigger than it looked from outside in the dark. Actually, there was only one room and I was in it. The walls were dark wood planks, same as the ceiling; standing on end, butted together and calked. There were huge rafters above that held everything together. One side looked to be higher than the other, and I assumed it had a slanted roof covered in rolled roofing to keep out the rain … _if_ it rained in this neck of the woods, and I assumed it did. A lot. The biggest window was the one in front next to the door. Anyway, they were all covered with heavy screening that looked not only bug-proof, but steam-locomotive and Mack-truck proof as well.

 _*In order for it to be bug-proof, dumbass, you have to remember to keep the screen door closed.*_

Hooley obviously hadn't. I pushed onto my elbows, chancing that my vertigo could toss me out of the bed on my ass, and looked around further. Sure enough, the dizziness persisted and the room tilted again. I had a hangover and a temperature. Not good. My actions triggered a biological urge that told me I needed to take a leak soon, before I hosed down the whole room.

The rest of the place was a mish-mash of throwaways that must have got hijacked on the way to the dump. It might have been kind of quaint … or even mid-century modern … had it not been so obviously falling apart. The rattan chair with the stool that Hooley had helped me into last night, stood across from the bed about ten feet away, and a dilapidated platform rocker was in the corner near the front wall with a couple of decrepit recliners arranged around it. There were mismatched side tables and an old coffee table standing in the middle, of use to no one.

 _*Whoa …*_

In the exact center of the room stood a huge bunk-house table with six odd chairs. To look at it, it would probably seat at least ten people. There was an odd ceiling fan with a light that hung over the middle of the table, and I frowned at it. Dumb idea to put a fan over a table where people were supposed to eat. Or maybe they served only cold food here. Maybe it was the only source of light and ventilation in the place. No air conditioning, obviously. At the moment I wished the fan were turned on. I was beginning to feel the heat radiating off me in waves.

The floor, I noticed, was covered wall-to-wall with ugly red and gray linoleum in a floral pattern; probably to keep bugs and critters from crawling up from underneath. They would have to use the steps; I decided … and laughed stupidly. The lino was molded to the floor boards and had probably been there since Harry Truman fired Douglas McArthur for not listening to orders. ("I didn't fire him for being an asshole, although he was …") That quote of Harry's had been my dad's favorite …

At least the place was clean. Sort of. I kept blinking to force things to stay in focus.

Lined up along the solid-looking back wall of the cabin was an eclectic array of '40s and '50s kitchen appliances. There was a white apartment-size gas stove, (what the hell did they use for fuel? Or did you just build a fire in it?), a big farm-house porcelain sink with some of the porcelain worn off down to the iron. Next to that was a Westinghouse refrigerator with rounded corners and a pull handle that looked like it came off a '49 Ford. Its noisy motor cycled on and off so often that it seemed to be talking to itself. A long wooden work counter stretched from the far side of the fridge, all the way to the opposite wall. It had been reworked enough times that it looked a little like a child's jigsaw puzzle … square pieces jammed together and nailed, with shelves added above and below. Sweet!

Beyond the foot of my bed was some sort of room with a heavy curtain pulled across the doorway. The head? Not much privacy there, but I sure needed to get to it somehow … and pretty damn soon. Or it could be a storage room or closet. Only thing was, there was the same size room in front, to the right of the door, with the same kind of curtain arrangement. But that one was probably the closet and the one back here, the head, 'cause this seemed to be where most of the plumbing was located.

I looked at my watch and was surprised to note that it was only 7:30 a.m. It seemed later than that, and I wondered where Hooley was. I didn't like what was happening to me. I was dizzy, and I really had to pee. But getting to and into that room presented a major problem. My cane was not nearby as far as I could see, and he'd insisted that I not put weight on my leg.

Hooley didn't know I was a doctor who was well aware what I must and must not do. He was right about not bearing weight. Even a very small amount could split open the wound he'd painstakingly taped together last night. The missing muscle would not allow me to hold my foot off the floor long enough to hop that far. I was screwed. I began to regret ditching the screechy old crutches back at the San Juan airport.

My tendency toward shortsightedness in this strange environment was already full of hairy scenarios, and I had an odd feeling that I would learn some difficult lessons here … if I lasted that long. "Crippled guy's adventures on a desert island" kind of drama was just about as contra-indicative as one could get.

My mind kept flipping back and forth from immediate needs to casual observations, and I next became aware that I was also thirsty. My stomach felt queasy and I doubted there was anything to drink here anyway. I didn't quite trust the water, except to shower with. I took a deep breath and pulled myself to a sitting position on the bed. The room tilted, but I caught myself with a grip on the bed frame. I eased my leg off the pillow and pulled away the netting to see if there was anything I could use to prop up on so I could get to the john.

Nothing.

I turned further, kicked away the sheet with my left leg and eased the right one carefully off the bed, to touch my heel to the floor. My senses swam and my leg was waking up incredibly fast and starting to hurt like a bitch.

 _*Fuck!*_

Then I heard the dune buggy.

"Vroom … roar … vroom … putt-putt-putt …"

Sounded like a barrel full of walnuts, but it was the most welcome sound on the island.

Hooley was back!

I wilted. No other word for it. A feeling of reprieve swept over me as though I was about to be hauled bodily out of a pit of quicksand just before I got sucked under. I lost muscle tone and slumped forward drunkenly, so great was the rush of relief. And that was not like me at all.

When Hooley came clomping up the steps, I turned to him in eager welcome. Not so much the eager welcome for a good friend; more like the need for a warm body to help me move _my_ warm body to the nearest potty!

When he saw me, he dropped two canvas bags filled with god-knew-what, and a large backpak onto the floor with a bang. He charged across to the bed and clasped my shoulders with both hands. "Kyle Calloway! What is wrong? You are feverish … you look terrible."

The half-smile I offered in return was pathetic, and I knew it.

" _I gotta Peee …"_

He was at my right shoulder in an instant, lifting and heaving quickly in his relief that I was not having a stroke or a heart attack or some other disgusting crisis. He got me into the john, and I shooed him away so I could tend to business in private. I could still hear him stomping around as he hurried out of there and closed the curtain behind him.

I yanked down my underwear and lowered myself dead-center onto the throne in the nick of time. In scary flashbacks, it reminded me of the time I'd had to catheterize myself.

 _*Ugh!*_

That wasn't the case this time. Euphoria came with the release of my angry bladder. Its accompanying fire-hose performance made me weak with ecstasy as I sat in a fog of fevered liberation. Listening to the discharge of my little high-pressure hose as my stream echoed against the fiberglass took the remainder of my pent-up desperation right along with it. God, I was woozy!

"Ahhhhh …"

From the other room I could hear Hooley pacing and the floor boards groaning beneath his weight.

I finally called to him: "Will you come get me out of here? Please?"

There are certain situations where a show of good manners is unconditionally applicable. I didn't know this guy that well yet, but he was my only means of reprieve in a pinch. Like now. I should try to be nice.

When he opened the curtain, I had just flushed … did I say it was a chemical toilet? It sounded like forty pigs snorkeling at their trough. I had pulled up my underwear and was leaning heavily against the wall. When I looked up, he was standing in the doorway holding one upper-arm crutch in each hand. They were, of course, aluminum, but they also looked fairly new, maybe not as squeaky as the ancient under-arm ones I'd so stupidly tossed away.

Hooley walked over to me and thrust a crutch into each of my eager hands. "Thank you." Gratefully, I took them and equalized my weight, wobbling a bit as I searched for balance. No squeaks, just a few adjustment sounds as the metal attuned to my clumsy center of balance. If someone asked me at that moment to list the ten most memorable events of my life, the last five or ten minutes might be pretty close to the top.

I staggered out of the john, crossed drunkenly to the bed and flopped down, panting.

Hooley stood looking at me with hands on hips. "Where do you wish to start, Kyle Calloway?"

"Huh?"

"There is much to do today, Mon. You need to be off your leg until the wound knits, not looking for ways to get into trouble. I understand the situation today because you had no means to get yourself to the bathroom. Now you have. You must never be without them. Also, you are fevered and we must determine why."

I stared at him, not happy with his assessment of my failings. I bit my tongue and did not tell him I thought he was being pissy. I knew why I had the fever. Too much walking, not enough resting; too much booze and not enough food, and I had lost a good amount of blood. I hung my head and said nothing.

He pointed to my bandage. "That should be changed, do you not agree? Each day must bring improvement until you can return to the use of your cane, no?"

I nodded, still keeping a lid on my argumentative tongue. For now he was boss, and if truth be told, I was grateful to be catered to for a change. "Your call," I said. "Where do you want me?"

"Right where you are would be good. Your leg must be straight when I assess the wound, and this morning we have plenty of light."

I could not fault him for his concern or his honesty. So far he was running against the current for the way I'd always measured people. He didn't argue, just stated facts.

Hooley removed the tape and the pads while I winced and hissed. Then he took his first really good look at what he was dealing with. A low whistle that escaped from him precluded the need for words. It was easier to take, however than many reactions I had received, even from doctors who should have known better. "You are septic," he said quietly. "Did you not notice the odor?"

I shook my head. I'd been so preoccupied with the need to urinate that I wouldn't have noticed a load of pig manure being dumped on my bed.

"You hide from me that you are not feeling well, and say you are fine. You are not fine. Now you must have another shot of penicillin, and as you Americans say, 'suck it up' while I tend the wound, remove the torn stitches and replace them with new ones. There is inflammation, and it must be treated with anti-biotics. It will hurt …"

"Yeah, I know. I've been living in a world of hurt a long time. A little more can't make that much difference."

I watched him dig around in one of his big canvas bags and marveled at the prodigious amount of medical paraphernalia he rooted out and crammed between his left arm and his chest. He piled it all on the bed and got up to go to the kitchen sink. He found a small kettle beneath the counter, filled it half full of water and set it the stove. I was about to find out how the damn stove worked, and I leaned forward, all eyes. The oven door, when he pulled it open, was a clever way to conceal the small propane tank that squatted inside. I snorted with laughter and wrinkled my nose as he lit it with a barn burner.

"That's a cheat."

He turned and stared at me with a sharp movement that made his little bell jingle. "Why is it a cheat? The oven does not work, but the metal sides isolate the fumes and make it safe to use the surface burners which, as you can see … do. It was Amos' idea. He and I designed the gas feed and built it. Now we have a cooking surface, and if you want baked things, there is a slow cooker on one of the shelves … or in the closet. Somewhere." He sounded rather smug, and I felt a sudden kinship.

"Three points for your side," I said. "Sorry; my bad. It's a swell idea."

He pulled a small stack of old glass cereal bowls from the other canvas sack, along with a box of table salt. I knew what he was doing, but I kept quiet and watched as he prepared to treat my septic wound. He poured hot water into the bowl and added a generous amount of salt. He stirred and stirred until the salt was dissolved and the water had cooled a bit. He pulled on a pair of throw-away sterile gloves and bent closer to work at cleansing my leg and mopping around the edges of the scar. It burned like hell, but I'd known it would and I steeled myself as he treated the infection.

The penicillin needle looked twice as long this time, and my ass cheeks bunched up when he sterilized the thing and drove it home.

 _*PHummph …*_

I have no idea what he used to stick me in the arm this time, but soon I was mellowed out and sappy and ready to swing into my own version of 'Swanee River' …

When I regained my senses, Hooley was cooking something that smelled pretty good on the little cheater stove. I was flat on my back with the sheet over me, and I had a feeling of: 'shit-showered-and-shaved' within an inch of my life. I was wearing a clean tee shirt, and when I threw down the sheet, which covered only my right leg, I was also wearing scrubs with the right leg cut off. The screen door was closed, my wound was open to the air and my leg lay cushioned on the same pillow as last night. I gasped and examined myself further. My beard was trimmed almost to Gregory House's familiar scruff, and I was realizing I had been manhandled by another male.

The wound on my leg looked amazingly clean and clear of the yellow tint of infection that had been there when Hooley took the bandages off. The torn stitches were gone, replaced by tiny new ones. I must have been out for some time. The arm canes were propped by the bed within easy reach, and I of course reached for them.

Hooley turned from the stove and held up a warning hand. "Whoa, Mon, you are not ready. You must not move your leg until I apply fresh bandages. Even then it is imperative that you use extreme caution. If you tear these stitches, I will have no choice but to call for an ambulance to take you to the hospital, for it will be far beyond my capabilities to repair them again. You are extremely weak, and it is doubtful you would have the strength to use the canes anyway. I am preparing a light meal, and there is coffee in the pot. I will help you to sit up when everything is ready." He returned to his boiling and stirring without waiting for my reaction.

Suddenly he was saying something else. It was spoken so softly that I had to strain to hear.

"I take back anything I might have said before about your injury. I apologize sincerely, for I have examined your problem at length. Although I am still puzzled, I now understand that you have suffered serious trauma. You are not only injured, but disabled. I now comprehend that your pain is chronic. You are fortunate that you could walk at all. Your right foot is starting to turn inward, and something should be done. Contracture of your knee is also beginning, and you must work against it. Give yourself three weeks for further healing of the stitches. After that, you should be able to work gradually up to being able to walk again with your cane."

I was staring at him in amazement while he spoke, gratified that he'd looked beyond the obvious. He'd seen that my quadriceps muscle was missing and the resulting damage had made me a cripple. He also recognized that I had not caused the injury to myself. I wished Wilson and Cuddy could meet this guy.

"Thanks," I said. "Been awhile since anybody agreed with me that the pain wasn't all in my head."

"What have you been taking for it?"

"Vicodin."

"That is very strong. And addictive. It will eventually ruin your kidneys. And your liver. How long?"

"Too long. You're preaching to the choir. I had an infarction in my thigh. I opted for a medically induced coma … sleep through the worst of the pain. My doctor was agreeable with that, but my medical proxy changed the rules while I was under the anesthetic. She authorized major surgery … afraid I was dying … and it compromised the utility of the leg. Now I drag it around like the dead thing it is. Useless. Always painful. I should have let them take it when I had the chance … but I just couldn't. There will probably come the day when I won't have a choice."

"I agree, unfortunately," Hooley said.

There was a long period of silence before he said anything further.

I waited.

"You are a doctor," he said finally. "Your name is not 'Kyle Calloway'. I spent all of last night in the researching of you, for you are well known in the United States. You are Gregory House, and years ago I read your books on Nephrology and Infectious Diseases."

Again there was a long period of silence.

Again I waited. Staring at his back as he stirred the cook pot.

He turned slowly and looked me in the eyes. It was disturbing. "Did you wish that I not reveal any of the things I found out?"

How had I thought I could keep it a secret? I nodded shortly. "Yeah. Please".

Hooley nodded briefly and removed the pot from the stove.

"It is done," he said finally.

Did he mean the soup in the pot?

Or that he would keep my secret?

39


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Argument Therapy"

TURNED OUT IT WAS BOTH …

THE SOUP WAS CREAMY; TINY BITS OF BROCCOLI SEEMED TO MELT ON MY TONGUE, FILLING THE EMPTY SPACES I HAD LEFT FALLOW FOR A LONG TIME. THE FLAVOR EXCITED MY TASTE BUDS AND THE DELICIOUS RICH, CREAMY SAUCE … IT WAS TOO THICK TO BE CALLED 'BROTH' … SATISFIED MY HUNGER WITHOUT MAKING ME UNCOMFORTABLY FULL. THE COFFEE WAS HOT AND STRONG AND EXCELLENT.

HOOLEY ASSURED ME THAT MY SECRET WAS SAFE, AND I TOLD HIM I APPRECIATED EVERYTHING HE HAD DONE FOR ME. INSTANT VALIDATION FOR BOTH OF US, I THINK …

WHICH GAVE ME LEAVE TO INSULT HIM IN A FRIENDLY MANNER AT LEAST ONCE A DAY. WHO KNEW? MAYBE I WOULD HAVE MY FILL OF INSULTS AT LAST AND TRY TO ACT LIKE A FRIEND. IT COULDN'T GET MUCH BETTER THAN THAT. NOT RIGHT AWAY, ANYHOW. TRYING TO BECOME A DECENT HUMAN BEING WAS GONNA BE A LONG, DRAWN-OUT PROCESS. MAYBE IF I PRACTICED MY MANNERS ON HOOLEY, I COULD LEARN TO DO THE SAME WITH WILSON … IF I EVER SAW HIM AGAIN.

WHILE MY LEG SLOWLY BEGAN TO HEAL … AT LEAST THE WOUND PART … I MADE MYSELF FAMILIAR WITH THE WAY THINGS WORKED AROUND THE CABIN. IT WAS A PAIN IN THE ASS TO HAVE TO GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR TO LIGHT THE PROPANE TANK EVERY TIME I WANTED TO COOK SOMETHING, BUT IF I WANTED TO EAT REGULAR, I HAD TO DO IT. THEN I LEARNED TO DRAG THE RATTAN FOOT STOOL OVER BY THE STOVE TO SIT ON WHEN I NEEDED TO FUTZ AROUND WITH THE GAS FEED, AND IT GOT A LITTLE EASIER.

I FOUND ALL KINDS OF OBSOLETE GOODIES STASHED ON THE SHELVES OVER AND UNDER THE WORK AREA BEYOND THE SINK. AN OLD KNIFE SHARPENER WITH STEEL WHEELS KEPT THE KITCHEN KNIVES HONED TO WEAPON-LIKE SHARPNESS, AND A HAND CAN OPENER WITH A BOTTLE OPENER ON THE HANDLE, SLICED THROUGH TIN LIKE A TABLE KNIFE THROUGH BUTTER. THERE WERE OLD SOUP BOWLS, OLD RESTAURANT PLATES WITH SEPARATED SEGMENTS, AND A CARNIVAL GLASS WATER PITCHER THAT SOMEONE HAD PROBABLY WON AT A PENNY-PITCH WHEN BULL WAS A PUP …

I WAS GETTING INTO VEGETABLE PEELING AND OMELET MAKING WITH A VENGENCE … ANYTHING TO DIVERT MY ATTENTION AWAY FROM WANDERING AROUND AND TAXING MY LEG IN A MANNER THAT I KNEW WAS NOT GOOD FOR THE HEALING PROCESS.

ONE DAY I FOUND MY CANE HANGING FROM THE BOTTOM BED RAIL WITH AN EXTRA BLANKET THROWN CARELESSLY OVER IT.

 _*WELL_ _ **HELLO OLD FRIEND**_ _… FANCY MEETING YOU HERE …*_

I PUT IT IN THE BATHROOM. HOOKED IT OVER THE SHOWER ROD TO HELP LEVER MYSELF IN AND OUT. I DECIDED HOOLEY WOULD APPROVE. IT WOULD BE NICE WHEN I COULD SHOWER WITHOUT HAVING TO GUARD AGAINST GETTING THE NEW STITCHES WET.

ANOTHER THING I LEARNED WAS TO KEEP THE DAMNED SCREEN DOOR CLOSED. HENCE, NO FLYING INSECTS INSIDE THE CABIN.

AND LIFE WENT MERRILY ON …

Behind the ugly old Damask draperies at the windows, I discovered, were heavy wooden shutters that could be closed during foul weather. There was also a plank door against the porch wall that could be secured over the screen door. When it rained around here, it must rain like the hammers of hell. The heavy hardware hinted at tropical monsoons of galactic proportions.

I found out that it was easier to sit in the old rattan chair when I needed to check the bandages on my leg. Being able to lean over the scene of the action without groaning in pain made it twice as easy to smear cream antiseptic and apply gauze and adhesive tape. In the daytime I began to wear cutoffs exclusively. Much easier for me and more comfortable for my leg.

My increasing independence made it easier on Hooley too. Now he had more time to devote to his other clients instead of having to check on me all the time. The new stitches were holding well because I bore no weight. After a few weeks, I began to see pink skin and scar tissue slowly emerge around the open wound. It looked like the underbelly of a newborn kitten; naked and paper thin. I still had my other old friend, the pain. But that was just my version of 'normal'.

When Hooley wasn't around to harass me, I began to lay one of the crutches on the end of the bed and hobble around on just one of them. I could place a small portion of weight on my right foot, which slowed the advance of the ankle contracture, as well as giving small stability to my calf. I did what I could to gently force it to straighten. When Hooley was around though, I did not place any weight at all. He kept telling me it was not ready. I didn't want to turn him into a real-life Wilson, so I made sure to do everything he said … when he was _there._ When he was not, I fudged it as I pleased.

I didn't argue. Not yet. He was helping me out as a favor. The arguments, I was sure, would come later when I was well enough to feel restless … and useless …

One day I was bored and too sore to sit still. I figured out a way to shimmy down the front steps one-at-a-time on my butt. I had long wanted to make my way around to the back to check out the Mickey Mouse handiwork that kept the cabin running on Twentieth Century technology. (Hah!) Once on solid ground, I placed the arm canes carefully to keep them from getting tangled in weeds and jungle growth and having myself a mini-disaster … and another lecture on _not_ trying to commit suicide.

The big generator … and I mean **B-I-G** … had definitely been brought from the states and installed here. I could see the marks left behind by somebody trying to file off the "P.R.R." logo. The thing ran on diesel fuel, because the distinctive odor was present, but not overpowering. I stayed back far enough so Hooley wouldn't smell it on my clothing. Next to the generator a big water tank had a direct line leading to the indoor plumbing underneath. Besides that, the fuel tank probably held more diesel than I could use in a year. Who would want to turn on the heat in _Barbados_? Hot water seemed to be its only purpose. The thing had been jammed into the niche beside the water tank, and had similar dispersal apparatus. Both were jigged in against the wood planks of the cabin, and between the two of them, would have shored it up through even a tidal wave.

I wondered where my landlord had found all this stuff. No wonder the rent was a grand a month. Whoever he was, he was probably still making payments on the hardware. All the connections looked to be relatively new.

I could see ruts running through the field grass and underbrush where supply trucks and fuel wagons no doubt wove in and out to refill the tanks. The crisscross of tracks reminded me of a rabbit warren, zigzagging all over the place.

Suddenly I sensed movement to my right. I jerked my head in that direction and saw a slight human figure, bent over by half, darting from one scrub bush to the next. A small man, dark-skinned. Never fully visible; hiding in shadow just out of sight, his light clothing blending with the sand, but not the greenery. He was dirty; cotton pants smudged. Something black was smeared on the side of his face, probably from crawling through the dirt in an effort not to be seen. He was purposely trying to remain invisible to my eyes. Whoever it was could obviously tell I was hardly able to engage in pursuit.

Was someone sneaking around my cabin for a definite purpose? If so, what? Might he be casing the place in search of valuables? Drugs? Not likely, since I still resembled a fugitive from 'Cardboard City'. Could I be making a big deal out of nothing? I pretended to be oblivious, hurting more than I really was, and wobbling around. I wondered: how often would a cripple on crutches go for a stroll among the wildroot and underbrush of his estate?

The trip back to the front of the cabin was tedious. Twice I paused to rest and look out over the ocean and gaze at the horizon where sky met water. I took a few deep breaths and squinted my eyes toward the sun. In reality, my peripheral vision was working double-time, searching for signs of the figure I'd spotted in the bushes. Nothing moved except distant specks; tourists further down the beach who rented cabins close to Amos's Tiki Bar; splashing in the water near the shore. Birds flitted around in the trees. I finally turned, struggled my way to the porch and slid back up the steps to perch on the deck floor and lay the crutches beside me. I looked back across the blue water again … for real this time. Wondering if the person I'd seen was some kind of cruel illusion …

Down the beach I watched the distant figures enjoying the water as their kids ran around in the waves that broke on the sand. Their voices echoed aloft on the warm air like ripples in the breeze. I closed my eyes to turn my thoughts away from 'cloak and dagger' images for a moment.

I heard the dune buggy's putt-putt motor overriding the voices and intruding on my reverie. But it wasn't the dune buggy. A large black motorcycle was making its way in my direction at a pretty good clip, and from here I could tell by the colorful hat, it was Hooley.

 _*Oh shit!*_

There were still telltale wisps of dry beach grasses adhering to my socks and crutch tips, and I reached down to brush them away quickly and scatter them to the breeze before he noticed. The bike pulled up to the porch and he killed the engine, looking at me suspiciously.

I wasn't looking at him, but at the bike. It was a Harley Hog. About 1995. In pristine condition from the look of it, except for a thin layer of sand and dust. It was black, plenty of chrome. Nice.

"Cool bike," I said noncommittally.

"Thank you. It belonged to my father who is no longer with us. Were you just out back?" He changed the subject without pause.

I sighed. "Yeah … didn't get all the dead grass off me in time to fool you, huh?"

"You did not. Also, many telltale crutch tracks in the sand. Went back to check out the water tank and generator, right?"

"Yeah … I was curious … and bored. And my leg hurt. I saw somebody sneaking around out there …"

That got him. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I did. I am most interested in what you _thought_ you saw."

"I didn't _think_ it. I saw somebody …"

"Where?" He was still sitting on the bike, but his body had gone tense.

"Back near the generator and fuel tank. Small guy. Dark skin, but not quite as dark as yours. I startled him, I think. He took off and circled behind the cabin, hiding in the bushes, crouching low where he thought I couldn't see him … knowing damn well I couldn't chase after him."

"How long ago?"

"Just now … maybe fifteen minutes … as long as it took me to walk back here. Why?"

"Because, Kyle Calloway, we have had other reports … people telling us they also have seen someone slinking around near their cabins … both renters and permanent residents. We suspect there is a group of off-islanders running drugs. We have not been able to determine who they are, or exactly what they are doing.

"'We'?"

"Myself, Amos, Packy … a few others." He got off the bike and stood with hands on hips.

I raised my head quickly. "Packy? The old dude who flew me over here in that rattletrap plane?"

"Yes. He lives on the other side of the island. Flying the plane is his hobby. We are all deputized and we have been watching for anything suspicious for a few months. The clinic I work from has been missing drugs and money and supplies. Our medications are locked in a safe room, but they still come up missing. As yet there are no leads. Your sighting may have changed the picture."

"Yep," I said grinning. "Now you have a lead. Sounds like somebody has a stolen key. You should have the locks changed." I pushed myself slowly upward and got the crutches under me to move inside. My leg pounded like a hammer on an anvil and the new stitches pulled as I moved.

Hooley moved back toward his bike, and from inside the screen door I saw him reach into one of the saddle bags and lift out a large, white deli bag. Food! I held open the door and closed it firmly after he entered. Something smelled like oven-baked fish.

"I brought lunch," he said.

"I would never have known, but the white bag and the fish smell kinda gave it away …"

"Hush, Kyle Calloway."

I laughed.

Over lunch we discussed further what I had seen, and he explained about the "deputies" from all over the island who were on the lookout for drug dealers and thieves. Unlikely deputies they were: a nurse, a bartender and a fly-by-night pilot in a broken-down plane, and some other local volunteers.

After that day, things quieted down for awhile. Hooley and Packy and Amos searched around the fuel and water tanks, but found exactly nothing.

I could've told 'em …

Precisely at the end of the month I began to press Hooley to let me ditch the crutches and use the cane again. I didn't mention that I had already been using it on and off inside the cabin for nearly two weeks. I didn't have to.

His only answer was a shrug of his shoulders and an uplifted palm. He was fixing lunch, as usual, and his back was turned as he leaned over the lunch counter. I couldn't see his face. "Jus' keep on doin' what you been doin' …" he said in a noncommittal tone.

I hadn't expected that answer. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" I countered.

He straightened slowly and turned. "Oblivious American! If you ever dusted under your bed, I would not see where you been hidin' the crutches in the daytime … hmmmm?"

Snookered. I had no fast or easy answer. He knew what I'd been up to, and his quiet manner cloaked a steel-trap mind and a pair of dark eyes that missed nothing. How many times did the man have to prove it?

I sighed, feeling a little guilty. "You knew, huh? How can you see dust or no dust on eighty-year-old red and gray linoleum?

"Not just dust, Mon. You got a woolly bear farm under there. You are sloppy. You leave tracks everywhere you go. Ever since I let you take the bandage off your leg and allow it to heal in the fresh air, you been puttin' the crutches away … an' puttin' 'em away." The smile on his face as he handed me a plate of pork chops and fried potatoes with a salad of fresh lettuce and tomatoes, was a study in one-upmanship. "Is not fish. See? So … your foolish curiosity has confirmed the presence of drug dealers on the island. Therefore I will discontinue harassing you and say 'thank you' instead."

I smiled back at his method of subtle apology. (I should practice it more). "You're welcome," I said, "even if it was mostly luck." The food smelled wonderful. I attacked it with vigor and took the remaining opportunity to keep my mouth shut. "Damn, Hooley … this is good."

"Thank you." He turned off the stove and the propane tank and brought his plate to the table. He sat down across from me and dug into his meal. It was a standoff between us. He said nothing further, but I could sense him checking me out. His head was bent over his plate, but I also sensed the electricity of his attitude, daring me to say anything further.

Instead I kept quiet. Just sat and stuffed my face.

Finally I heard his flatware being lowered to his plate. "You are a doctor, Kyle Calloway, and I am not. I wish to help you as I can, but I have no place telling you what is best for your body. You have lived with your disability for a long time and I cannot presume to tell you how to treat it. Do you wish for me to continue here? Or would you rather I withdrew my influence?"

I laid knife and fork across my plate and looked up. "I'm not ungrateful," I said. "You helped me out of a painful situation, and I can't thank you enough for that. I'm just very uncomfortable with anyone who has to wait on me. I'm kind of private about my person, and my hair stands on end when someone sees my scar and it horrifies them. You have dressed and undressed me while I was under an anesthetic, and that kind of gives me the creeps, if you know what I mean.

"I used to have this best friend who drove me nuts doing stuff for me that I should have been doing for myself. I bitched him out over and over again, but he did it anyhow. Then one day he and our boss got together and told me that my pain was mostly in my head. They stopped my meds and gave me a 'morphine injection' that turned out to be saline solution. They ended up sending me to the looney bin, but it didn't help because I knew I wasn't looney. I had to get the hell out of there."

I knew if I lied to Hooley, I could get caught up in my own deception, and I didn't want to do that. "In my sorry state of mind, I wrecked my car, hit the steering column and messed up my leg again. Had to have more surgery … same area as the old infarction site, ironically. You saw the result. I came here not just to rest my leg and allow it to heal … I also came to try to get my head on straight and decide what I want to do with the rest of my life. In my other reality I _never_ leveled with anyone the way I've leveled with you. I'm still a sorry mess and I know it, and I need to fix it if I can."

I was sidestepping and smoothing over a lot of issues and ignoring others. It wasn't really Hooley's concern, or his problem. I told him most of the actual story, but had to stop talking or I'd be tearing up … and I hadn't done that since I was a kid.

"I understand what you are saying, Mon." Hooley pushed back his chair, gathered our dirty dishes and placed them in the sink. "We all have our windmills to tilt … our boulders to push uphill. I will never intrude on your privacy again without your permission. I value your trust in me, and what we say here will never go beyond these walls.

"So, may I say that you will find a vial of Vicodin, a vial of Gabapentin and a large bottle of Vodka on the top shelf of the supply closet. You will also find a bottle of Ibuprofen and a supply of first aid products and skin softening conditioners for your scar when you need them. Please do not abuse the Vicodin. Fair?"

I looked at him and his eyes were kind. Surprised, I nodded once and it was settled. "I appreciate that. Thanks."

"Most welcome."

On the first of the month I handed him a thousand dollar bill, folded into a tiny square. "For services rendered, above and beyond the call of duty. And for all the old Mrs. Joneses out there who had to wait while you were tending to me …"

He grinned and thrust the money into a pocket. "We are cool, Kyle Calloway."

(I continued to do this every month I remained on the island …)

I didn't see him again for awhile. I guessed he was tending to his other clients and paying his own bills. Or else he thought I was healed enough to begin taking care of my own needs and cleaning up my own messes. It was a bit lonely, but I did it. I also pushed a dust mop around under my bed and into the kitchen and into dark corners in the 'sitting' part of the place. And I changed my own bed linens, which took me what seemed like hours. I wondered if Hooley and Packy and Amos "and others" were out combing the underbrush for drug-stealing suspects … or if they were just hellishly busy with everyday life.

After a time … maybe a week or so … I retrieved my laptop from the old blue backpak. It was dead as a doornail, so I plugged the charger into the only outlet in the kitchen. Plugged the laptop into the charger and sat in the dark while the thing came to life. There was a case study on Nephrology I'd intended to submit to JAMA and a few other medical journals. Now was the time. This one, however, would be authored by someone quite new to the submission process. Perhaps to a lesser journal first, to let the name gain some familiarity …

I wanted to get 'Kyle Calloway' up and floating in the ether; maybe reach out a couple of cautious tendrils here and there; write a series of short articles and submit them. If they drew a response, I'd extend the reach. Calloway, of course, had to remain a fairly mysterious character. He had no history of collegiate study, no alma mater. He had no M.D. after his name … except the one I gave him … and no glorious recommendations from prestigious hospitals. It would turn into a useless endeavor if someone decided to look up his actual credentials, other than a few cursory inquiries …

So I plunked away at my small keyboard, writing intricate stuff that had lived inside my head, but which had never been written down because I was experiencing too much physical pain, or was too pissed off at some stupid situation at PPTH … or my department was under too much pressure to find a solution to another critical case. Actually, I was just too stubborn and bullheaded to sit down and concentrate on it long enough.

One excuse after another.

Now I was out of excuses. Truth be told, I wanted to hear from Wilson again. I was not able to go in search of him, so it was up to him to come in search of me.

Dr. Kyle Calloway was going to blaze a trail in the only method open to him. One of these days though, he would have to show up back in the USA to make it happen …

47


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"The Man in the Baseball Hat"

HE WAS UP EARLY, WAS JAMES EVAN WILSON.

HE DIDN'T TURN ON THE LIGHTS, BUT BLUNDERED AWKWARDLY IN THE DARK, FEELING AROUND FOR THE OLD CLOTHING HE'D DUG OUT LAST NIGHT. THERE WAS A RAGGED SWEATSHIRT HE'D PULLED OUT OF THE TINY CLOSET. ITS FRAYED COLLAR WAS THREADBARE AND THERE WERE HOLES UNDER BOTH ARMS. HE FOUND A BASEBALL CAP OF DUBIOUS DESCRIPTION, SO HE PUT IT ON AND PULLED IT DOWN ON HIS FOREHEAD AND PEERED AT HIS DARKENED REFLECTION IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR. ALL HE COULD SEE WAS A FAINT OUTLINE OF SCRUFFY CHEEKS AND HAIR SPIKES BENEATH THE SCOOP, AND DEEP-SET DARK EYES THAT PEERED BACK OWLISHLY.

HE FOUND A FADED DENIM JACKET WITH WORN CORDUROY CUFFS AND COLLAR, AND AN OLD PAIR OF JEANS ON THE SAME HANGER. BOTH ITEMS HAD BELONGED TO SOMEONE WHO'D LEFT THEM THERE AND FORGOTTEN ABOUT THEM. BUT THAT WAS ANOTHER CLOSET IN ANOTHER APARTMENT A LONG TIME AGO. THE JEANS WERE TOO LONG AND TOO WIDE, BUT HE COULD ROLL UP THE CUFFS AND USE A BELT. HIS HIKING SHOES WERE ON THE SHELF IN THEIR ORIGINAL BOX; SELDOM USED, BUT THEY WOULD DO. THEY WERE HEAVY ENOUGH THAT IF THE MOUNTAIN KICKED HIM IN THE ASS, HE COULD KICK IT BACK. WHEN HE PUT EVERYTHING ON AND GOT IT ADJUSTED, HE FELT LIKE A REDNECK FROM BEAVER SPRINGS, PENNSYLVANIA.

It wasn't a 'mountain' in the true sense of the word. Locals called it "Hunchback Hill". It was a big pile of dirt and rock and prickly vegetation with a narrow trail chinked into the side of it. People came from all over to fight their way up through the briars and underbrush and rocky outcroppings to make it to the top. Sometimes they got beat up by the mountain, but they took the challenge anyway. And peed in the underbrush and took 'selfies' and bragged of their prowess.

Today James Wilson had a pressing need to see for himself if Hunchback Hill was still worth its nasty reputation. He left his pocket change on the kitchen table. Wouldn't need it among the nettles, briars and narrow escarpments. He was purposefully unshaven and his face would look like part of the under-growth. Even his best friend wouldn't know him.

Then again, his "best friend" wasn't able to climb a mountain … and even if he was, he was not around to do so. His "best friend" had simply melted into the undertow of life, and the apartment he'd called 'home' for fifteen years had gone empty all the way to the paint on the walls. The last time James had driven past the place; there were Venetian blinds and lace curtains at the windows.

It took him awhile to get everything together. When he put on the raunchy old outfit, he found it to be surprisingly comfortable, although nothing would be missed if he decided to trash it all at adventure's end.

He had an article to write today, James Wilson did.

Papers to evaluate and a couple of patients to see … all previously scheduled for this morning. However, he'd been in no mood to concentrate on such things. He'd had a dream last night that took him back to difficult times, and when he woke this morning, it niggled at his memory in the manner of a cat niggling at the loose end of anything that dangled in the wind …

He cancelled today's appointments politely, left phone messages like the professional he was. He had to get away. Had to!

He was in just the right mood to tackle Hunchback Hill, however, even if it beat the hell out of him and he came home so bruised that his butt would be dragging his tracks shut. Tonight he would get himself hammered; bleary eyed drunk. Wasted. The remnants of the disturbing dream would recede back into his bleary conscience and life would go on the next morning. At least that was the plan.

It was breaking daylight when he stepped out his front door and locked it behind him. He descended the dark flight of stairs to street level and proceeded down the street to his car. He got in and started it up. He had to wait until the defroster cleared the windshield of a thin layer of ice crystals.

He should really look for another apartment. This one had no off-street parking, and it was like living in a broom closet. It was also beyond 'downtown'. Sometimes he had to park as far as a block away, and he didn't like that. Things were different now, and he often wished they weren't.

James put his heavy paper cup of strong black coffee in the space for it on the Volvo's console and decided against having breakfast. You didn't start up the side of Hunchback Hill with a lump of heavy food in your belly unless you intended to barf it all into the bushes about a third of the way up.

The cup teetered in the holder because the holder hadn't been designed for cups that big. Even though it wore a thin plastic lid, he monitored his driving so there weren't any sharp turns or quick stops to topple it into his lap or onto the passenger seat.

He drove through slower moving traffic and finally left the city behind to head for the wide open spaces where he could see the mountain through the morning fog about five miles ahead. Up there he could shout and curse and carry on like a madman and no one would see or hear or give a damn.

There was a big picnic area at the bottom of the trail, and of course at this time of year it was deserted. Winter hadn't given up yet and it was too early and too nippy for the Spandex crowd to be out challenging the trail and showing off their smooth, muscular bodies. He got out of the car, grabbed his coffee, pinged the door locks and looked around. Out on the highway, traffic zoomed past, in a hurry; disinterested and oblivious.

 _*Well, here goes …*_

James started up the narrow trail with coffee in hand, sipping at it from time to time. He was still below the narrowest part of the trail where he would need both hands just to pull himself along through the closely spaced vegetation around him. He set a steady pace and put his weight into the climb. The trail wasn't particularly steep right away, but it maintained a steady uphill slant filled with loose stones and hidden hazards and buried roots to trap the boot of a careless climber and send him tumbling off the trail into tangled underbrush. He'd made this hike a few times before as a younger man, and it usually took about two hours. Now, after ten years and twenty additional pounds, he figured he should maybe add another hour to the climb.

James Wilson was full of unresolved anger. The dream last night had proved that. He'd seen House's car hit the wall all over again in minute detail, including the sight of Gregory House standing, dust-covered, in front of him on the sidewalk with a look of smugness on his face and a dark splotch of blood on the leg of his jeans. That was the last time they'd seen each other. It was coming up on a year ago.

Now Cuddy was gone, Hadley was gone, and Taub and Chase were restless as hell. Even Foreman talked of getting out and moving on. James was the only one left at PPTH with no immediate plans. Many of those remaining on general staff had regarded him as though he had the plague while he walked around for six weeks with a plaster cast on his arm, and lips that remained sealed to all inquiry.

Wilson felt put-upon, used and betrayed, and he'd felt that way for a long time. Feelings of deep guilt he could not fathom also pulled at his conscience. He had never understood the grievous sins he had committed to deserve them. He'd always tried his best to help, but things came apart anyway.

His dilemma couldn't be alleviated in a satisfactory manner because its source was nowhere around to enable him to get the burden off his chest. He did not know what to do about it. It was like trying to talk to a shadow. He knew his lousy state of mind was taking over his life. His injured arm still ached intermittently, and the ache always brought House to mind, even when his thoughts were in an entirely different place. Sometimes he caught himself rubbing at the hairline scar the same way House was always rubbing at his disfigured thigh. It was a constant reminder of what he had lost.

What they both had lost.

 _*Where did you go, you bastard? Don't you know how much I miss you?*_

Thick undergrowth along the narrowing path was stiff and sharp and brittle from the harshness of last winter. Briars as long as cats' claws yanked at the material of the jacket and jeans. Small dead branches snapped loudly at his passage, like pops of a small hand gun in the morning stillness. A few times tiny needle-like thorns pierced the worn denim and bit into his legs. He set his jaw and kept climbing, sucking at his coffee, which was beginning to cool.

A black cloud of winter birds took wing before him like a school of herring in the ocean, rising noisily from the barren trees, startled into flight at the intrusion. Their wing beats exploded in the air, bursting through the silence. Daylight was almost upon them now, and they were vocal. The winter chill usually granted privacy to wild creatures, and these were voicing their displeasure at the disturbance.

Wilson looked skyward to the shadowy cloud of beating wings; listening to their angry voices as they quickly disappeared in the distance.

 _*I know exactly how you feel …*_

To left and right he was surrounded by sharp dry twigs that raked his face, pulled at his hat brim and reached annoying tendrils down the neck of the shirt and jacket. He brushed them aside, but they seemed to multiply exponentially as he moved upward. Intermingled with tough winter branches were the smaller, brittle brown spikes of the conifers. Clinging; awaiting new green shoots to emerge and send them cascading to the ground. They picked at the corners of his mouth and poked into his ears like eager dog-tongue. They trailed stiff clumps of dead needles across his shoulders and dropped them like rain behind him.

He brushed the nuisance aside as he continued upward, losing concentration at odd moments and stumbling clumsily on the trail when he wasn't paying enough attention to his footing. He spilled coffee on his hand twice before he jolted to a stop and backed against a tree trunk to finish it, thereby freeing both hands to battle overhanging tree branches. He flung the last dregs into the thicket, crumbled the cup and shoved it deep into the big jacket pocket. He turned back to the trail and tramped along, both elbows thrust forward like a battering ram.

James felt like a human dreadnaught in a comical assault on Mother Nature … as it were … and Ol' Ma Nature was sure-as-hell winning.

He stopped to reconnoiter halfway up, curling an arm around a slender sapling and leaning outward to look back the way he had come. He was panting; muscles in full burn. He was not used to this. One thing positive about it though: his senses were set to gathering stamina to continue; not doing more mental gymnastics with the ghost of Gregory House.

The trail unfolded behind him. He could see out over the rim of rocks and limbs and tangled vegetation. The highway that had loomed so close when he began the climb now looked more like Match Box cars on a tiny, barren race track. Not even the sounds of their engines penetrated up here. He looked out over trees and fields and the harsh, bare landscape below, thinking with a sigh that it closely resembled the bleak, sparse places in his heart.

It was then he began to realize that what he'd been feeling all along was not only guilt and anger. It was a compilation of weariness, despair and loneliness, and amounted to a terrible sense of loss he had felt before, and the incalculable lapse of communication with the only other human spirit compatible with his own … and the stubborn image of the man was intruding on his thoughts again …

For all this time he had blamed Gregory House for everything, and House's lack of social skills even more-so when it came to matters of the heart. House's inability to express feelings without choking up, or speak candidly about his physical limitations in less than a mocking manner, stifled their ability to work anything out together in a sane manner. House's failed relationships with Stacy and Cuddy, and his guilt over the death of Amber, made him sullen and unresponsive.

 _*But he didn't cause Amber's death, and I didn't see it until it was too late … My God! Did he_ _ **know**_ _that?*_

Wilson's vision clouded suddenly. He tightened his arm around the trunk of the tree and lifted his eyes to the sky as his mind turned outward. All his thoughts tumbled about in disorderly confusion.

He missed Amber, who might have been his soulmate, or even wife number four. But he missed House with mixed emotions he did not understand and did not know if he could afford to think about …

 _The sad old Dodge had been dragged from the scene of the … you wouldn't dare call it an 'accident' … to some unknown location. It was like the earth just opened up and swallowed both car and owner …_

 _Cuddy retreated in the aftermath. She had expected House to come back and plead for forgiveness and resume their relationship. Actually, she wanted to break him; turn him away with harsh recriminations. Let him fall on his own sword. But it didn't happen. Instead of facing her, he'd just disappeared into a galaxy far far away._

 _She hated to be upstaged, so she closed things down and left town. When he resurfaced, he would look her up. She thought. That didn't happen either._

 _It was widely speculated that she was holed up with Rachel at her sister's place._

Wilson heard somewhere that she was on staff at a hospital in Newark, but he was disinclined to check and find out for sure. No one he talked to had heard from her. Her smashed house was not being repaired, but sat empty and abandoned and cocooned with industrial plastic.

The era of The Department of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital came to an abrupt end. It did not steal away quietly: it crumbled like Wall Street in 1929 and disappeared almost overnight. A heavy black cloud descended over the fourth floor and extinguished everything daring and innovative and exciting that had once presided there. The team of promising young doctors was stalled and in limbo and without a leader. Painful unanswered questions remained.

Funding dried up. The genius Director of Diagnostics thumped a cane along the hallways no more. All the promising young doctors resigned their positions for greener pastures, or returned to their varied specialties and merged into the medical staff of PPTH.

James Wilson immersed himself in patient care and withdrew from the position of Department Head. He also spent prodigious amounts of time in the free clinic and took on private patients.

Today, however, he'd been determined to take himself and his miserable state of mind to the top of Hunchback Hill where he could kick some rocks over the side just to hear them bounce and echo off each other on the way down. He could shout some cuss words into the rarefied air where no other human being could hear, and where the trees and the remaining rocks kept their own counsel.

But a strange thing happened. On the way up the path, James Wilson had had an enlightening moment. He was no longer angry or resentful or guilty.

Just lonely. But not for 'Wife Number Four'.

Another fifteen minutes of hard climbing brought him to the summit of that ill-formed, humpy back sedimentary elevation. There was an interesting jumble of trees up there; the leaf-shedding kind and the pines. The trees flanked an immense weather-worn, cracked and pitted, gray slab of rock that looked like some long-ago alien ship had dropped on the top of the mountain.

James Wilson removed the baseball hat and raked his fingers through tangled, wet-sweated hair. He placed the hat on the surface beside him and sat Indian-style, looking out over the lay of the land, letting his gaze wander to encompass the vast area where he'd spent most of his adult life. He propped his elbows on upthrust knees and clasped both hands upon them. He lowered his head onto the backs of his hands and closed his eyes.

His heartrate was returning to normal.

Tears escaped slowly from between closed eyelids.

He did nothing to wipe them away.

After an hour Wilson unfolded himself from the human knot he had tied himself into. He had found no solutions to his ongoing dilemma, but he'd discovered a strange enlightenment that lifted the gray clouds away from the mystery that had lived so long in his soul.

Finally he stood up and looked around, realizing he'd too long prayed to an indifferent God.

The answer was not with God, but with himself.

He reached down to the rock and picked up the old baseball cap. Whacked off the pine needles against his hand.

Wilson gathered himself, set the hat back into place on his head, and began the ascent from Hunchback Hill. Sometimes an indifferent God … like humanity itself … just didn't give a shit.

Sometimes the difficult decisions were left behind and in limbo, so a man could figure out things on his own.

It was full daylight now. The sun was high in the sky. It must be noon or maybe later. It was breezy and there was a nip in the air at ground level. Not spring yet, but close.

Even his thoughts were now chilling out for some reason. Amber. House. One of them forever irretrievable; and the other? Who the hell knew? He hadn't felt like throwing rocks or curses over the edge of the mountain. What he felt was exhaustion. He felt like going home to the little, scoungy, ugly apartment and getting started on his second plan of the day:

Extraordinary pie-eyedness.

He would think of House's whereabouts later. Maybe **much** later.

He had already thought about Amber too much ... but no longer as "Wife Number Four".

54


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Diving Into the Undertow"

IT'S TAKEN ME _HOURS_ TO GET THIS EXACTLY THE WAY I WANT IT …

I'M NOT USING REFERENCE LITERATURE AND NOT COMPILING A BIBLIOGRAPHY. WHY BOTHER? IT'S GOING TO BE COMPLETELY EXTEMPORANEOUS. SORT OF A PSEUDO-TYPE ORIGINAL IMPROMPTU IMPROVISATION. THEREABOUTS OR CLOSE-TO … SOMETHING LIKE THAT. A FEW SUGGESTIONS OF SPECULATION AND A TOE TO TEST THE WATER, SO TO SPEAK.

I MAY BE THROWING IN A BIT OF POETIC LICENSE, OKAY?

I'M CAREFULLY MANIPULATING THE TERMINOLOGY AND THE LANGUAGE; POURING OVER EACH TINY DEFINITION AND CHECKING THE PLACEMENT OF EVERY PUNCTUATION MARK. I'M CAPITALIZING ON COLORFUL INUENDO IN THE INFLATED MANNER OF GREGORY HOUSE, THAT NOTORIOUS, GENIUS DIAGNOSTICIAN, _LATE_ OF NEW JERSEY.

 _*SO EASY TO DO, SINCE HE'S ME! I WONDER: SHOULD I REALLY KNOCK HIM OFF? NOT YET, MAYBE. I SHOULD WAIT AWHILE … SEE WHAT (IF ANYTHING) HAPPENS.*_

I'M INCLUDING HERE, JUST ENOUGH TECHNICAL JARGON TO TEASE EVEN THE MOST CYNICAL OF READERS; ADDING MORE THAN ENOUGH BUZZ WORDS AND OBSCURE, MANUFACTURED-PRODUCT INNUENDO TO DILENIATE RENAL DISFUNCTION AND RAPID KIDNEY FAILURE. I'M INSINUATING THE USE OF EXACTLY THE CORRECT AMOUNT OF ADVANCED TECHNIQUE FOR AN INNOVATIVE PROCEDURE, MAKING IT VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE TO CONFIRM OR DENY WITHOUT AN EXTENSIVE BATTERY OF TESTS AND SCANS TO BOTH PROVE AND DISPROVE THE DATA …

WHICH WILL LEAD NOWHERE, EXCEPT BACK TO THE BEGINNING. "ROUND ROBIN", SO TO SPEAK.

UNLESS THEY KEEP A TOWER OF REFERENCE BOOKS AT THEIR ELBOWS. AND EVEN THEN …

I'm also including step-by-step specialty procedural recommendations with enough confusing psycho-babble that would render a translation utterly redundant. The paper is a stroke of genius, of course.

Look who wrote it!

What an absurd labyrinth of double-speak; a total pain-in-the-ass to read. The language is legitimate, however. The step-by-step tedium of the entire article presumes to be a work of intricate and extensive research.

What it **does** is subtly allude to the medical idiocy that emerged between doctors when I had the infarction and they could not diagnose it.

What it **doesn't** do is make a damn bit of sense.

I rest my case.

I smiled as I read through it the second time, thinking, "Wow! Sounds just like: 'The Song that Doesn't End', by Lambchop."

Happily, I scrawled the byline: "Kyle Calloway, M.D.", and made no effort to disguise the flamboyant handwriting of the signature. I addressed it to an obscure medical journal published somewhere in California. (California will publish just about anything.)

Definitely not to JAMA. Not yet. I had to get that strange moniker a little more well-known first … try to make the hogwash go viral.

Down the line somewhere it would be inevitable that some intern on his lunch break would attempt to plough through it. An eyebrow would raise, then a head-scratch of confusion. His "bullshit" monitor would heat up to RED ALERT …

What I was counting on was: a busy, overburdened senior doctor would glance at the thing being thrust in his face by a first-year Probie. He would squint at the terminology, wonder if he'd been working too hard, and toss the thing in the trash in disgust. That might open a six-to-eight-week window before somebody responded with a letter to the editor, wanting to know who in hell this idiot "Kyle Calloway" was, and the accusation that he was a total quack, or had made a breakthrough in kidney disease research that would revolutionize modern medicine.

* _We shall see what happens next …*_

Tonight I'm perched on the front porch with my leg propped on a pillow before me. I'm sweating like a race horse and I have the shakes. I just finished a round of leg exercises and I feel like I've been rode hard and put away wet. There is no drink beside me because I'm not capable of carrying one out here, and my hand is clamped over leg spasms that resulted from forcing all my muscle fragments into doing the work of a quadriceps that is no longer there. I'm still trying to deny how much the damned thing hurts, and also trying to wait another hour before taking a second Vicodin.

I've been doing the exercises Hooley took me through the second day I was here. I didn't tell him that I'd learned them my first year in med school, but he probably already guessed. I'm trying to make it work this time with the same sort of determination I used after the infarction to avoid them.

I know I'm getting close to the end of my range of options, and if I don't do something now, and keep up with it, I will probably never walk again without crutches. I'm more afraid of that than I am of the pain. So I do the exercises, and then sit and gasp and sob with twice the pain I would have endured if I hadn't chickened out and done them the first time around.

Wilson tried to tell me a long time ago, but I just wouldn't listen. And now here I am …

My fear of the pain that the exertion caused years ago, even knowing it would eventually get better, added to my crummy attitude while I sat and felt sorry for myself, and then lurched around the hospital like a three-legged frog. It's coming back to kick me in the ass. I would not let another person, then, see me in so much agony that I was reduced to tears and rocking back and forth squeezing my leg in a death grip.

Now I don't care … most of the time. Hooley has seen it on occasion and has not blown it out of proportion. It is what it is. He's a good guy and we get along well. I try to take his suggestions even though his profession is … can I say … 'beneath mine' … ? But we are not so close that we have begun to share a history. I know nothing of his personal life, and I'm not really interested. Neither is he, I suspect, in mine. He knows I've lied to him at least once, but it doesn't seem to bother him.

When he sees I am in the kind of pain that reduces me to my lowest common denominator, Hooley understands. He gives me space, not sympathy. Tylenol 3, not a hug. He will knead the angry muscles if I ask, but I do not do that often. He gets it.

The last time I talked to him, I asked him if he could scare up an old radio somewhere so I can listen to other kinds of music besides Calypso. Some rhythm & blues would be nice …

"Not a problem, Mon," but that's what he always says when I ask for something … which isn't often either. He did drag the old rattan chair and stool out here for me, and a small table for odds and ends that I use mostly to hold my laptop, an ashtray and a coffee cup. Sometimes a glass with something stronger than coffee. I sit here in the evenings, doused with insect repellent and my leg propped up, hurting like hell after the exercise sessions. I just stare out over the water, distracting myself with odd cloud formations and watching the shadowy forms of kids cavorting further down the beach.

From here I can catch a few strains of the juke box at Amos' Tiki Bar as it floats on the tropical air, and I listen for the occasional strains of Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra thrown in with Don Ho and Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. It's pleasant, but boring. I'm a little too far up the beach to actually catch what goes on there, but I can hear the high-pitched laughter of the women sometimes, and kids playing and the caterwauling of the 'Wah-Wahines' whether I want to or not. Slide guitars and mariachi rhythms are not my first choice in music, and after a while it has a tendency to put me to sleep even when I don't want to sleep.

I sip my drink, smoke a cigar or two and picture the noisy little dive as I remember it the night I first arrived on the island. I wasn't in very good shape then, but I'm better now. At least I don't feel as though I might pass out every time I try to walk. I can now clean up my own mess, make my own bed, cook and do dishes. It takes me some time, but I get it done.

And I do the leg exercises regularly; sometimes twice a day. I have to, or I'm in deep shit. It isn't a choice anymore.

There is new, fragile scar tissue forming over the open wound above my knee, and when I'm inside the cabin I can usually move around okay with the cane. My knee doesn't bend very well yet, so going outside is a different story. Some days I get restless and go out to wander around near the back of the cabin … check out the generator and the fuel and the water tanks. After a few months here, none of the gauges on those things seems to have moved more than half-inch or so. When I go out there … let's face it … I keep a watchful eye out for fresh footprints and furtive figures in the bushes. And I use the sturdy arm-canes that Hooley brought me.

Truth to tell, I'm glad for them. I'm not stupid, though some people might tell you different. But I know what I know, and I know my leg isn't going to get much better that it is right now. I can't bear full weight on it. Not even close. My knee swells and is totally out of whack. I can feel the beginnings of contracture.

After I attempted to fillet myself in my bathtub back in Jersey and had to have another bout of surgery, things are pretty much screwed up forever. My foot turns inward, and in the mornings I'm totally useless until I can work it loose. That hurts like hell, and exercises don't touch the foot part. I guess the only way I can straighten it permanently is with a sledge hammer.

I haven't told Hooley. He has promised he will not interfere again, and he hasn't. But I'm beginning to see the writing on the wall.

The longer I'm alone to think, the more I realize the ungodly mess I've made of my life. My thoughts wander around in ceaseless disarray when I think too much … but so be it. I'm also beginning to realize I need to reconcile those thoughts and deal with them in a rational way instead of stuffing them up my ass to fester and swell to the point of blowing myself apart in a shower of entrails. I tell myself over and over again that "feelings" isn't a dirty word.

There was a time when there were people I liked and who liked me. A long time ago I had one or two friends I went to football and soccer games with; played golf with and bar-hopped on weekends with. Went cruising for pretty females with … doctors like me. Wilson was one of them. We played poker and got drunk on weekends. We ate lunch in the cafeteria and raised hell with older staff physicians until they all hated us. But we were good at what we did and they knew it and always cut us some slack.

I even thought I was in love once. No, twice.

The first time might even have worked for both of us if I hadn't let myself turn into such a pure, unadulterated ass.

Stacy Ames was a constitutional lawyer. She was gorgeous, built like a brick shithouse, and had a quick comeback for every smart remark I ever made. She was my intellectual equal in every way, and she was my friend first. Our relationship blossomed quickly. Like a flower in bloom, and almost overnight she moved into my flat. Our love grew and flourished, and we did things in a big way and went everywhere together. We argued and teased one another, made mad passionate love and got up in the mornings and did it again. We shared breakfast and then went our separate ways to work.

We laughed a lot and I toyed with the idea of asking her to marry me.

Then the infarction hit, and I turned into a screaming, insane wild animal, out of my mind with pain, and the hospital staff accused me of drug seeking. But I was a doctor, for god's sake, and some of them knew me and knew I didn't use drugs. Nothing I might have said or done, had I been able, would have convinced any of them that I wasn't about to overdose or kill myself once the first accusation hit other ears. I was screwed.

They isolated me, thinking to detox me, and I spent hours screaming in agony until my voice was gone and I didn't even know who or where I was. I lay sweating until the bed covers were wringing wet; cursing and striking out at anyone who came near me. Only when I went into cardiac arrest did they do anything to help me. They never found needle tracks on my body, but they still were not convinced.

After that it was like something tripped a switch in my brain and I turned into an out-of-control madman. I snapped and lunged, tore at the sheets until they finally sedated me with the drugs they'd accused me of Jonesing for. Then they let me lay there doped out of my head. Stacy could make no headway with them. I messed the bed and vomited green slime all over the sheets.

I was finally taken to surgery for a procedure that revealed I'd had an aneurysm in my femoral artery that clotted and caused an infarction. My quadriceps muscle became necrotic and they bypassed the dead muscle to restore circulation to the rest of my leg. I would not let them amputate, and opted to be placed into a drug-induced coma instead, until the worst of the pain receded.

Stacy changed all that while I lay unconscious, and I don't even want to think about the rest.

I turned away from everyone who cared enough to want to help me. I should have sued that fucking hospital for malpractice and put that entire medical team out of business. I still don't know why the hell I didn't. I insulted anyone who didn't meet my increasingly high standards … which was pretty much everybody. That way I made sure I kept myself on that pinnacle of control where no one could reach me, or even care to. I became detached, remote, indifferent and very much alone. I thought I liked it that way. Cold chills of hatred ran down my spine when I thought I saw someone look at me with what I interpreted as pity or disgust in their eyes.

Even Wilson avoided me, giving me space until I regained control of myself and calmed down. Time went by and I withdrew more and more. I didn't want to see anybody or be seen by anybody.

After my discharge and refusal to attend physical therapy, I holed up in my dirty little apartment and didn't even attempt to go back to work. I felt utterly useless, hobbling around on crutches. Stacy gave up and moved out.

As I look back on it now, I spent almost a year lolling around on my smelly couch, wrapped in a smelly blanket, eating Vicodin like M&Ms … my useless leg propped on a smelly pillow.

It hurt too much to bathe, so I didn't. I didn't eat, except for cholesterol banquets I had delivered from some pizza joint or other, and let the containers accumulate until I had made a fortress of old pizza boxes.

I went through booze by the gallon and Vicodin by the wheelbarrow full. I soon looked and smelled like an inmate in an insane asylum.

Enter: James Wilson and Lisa Cuddy.

 _*Christ!*_

These were the only two people I couldn't get rid of. It seemed like one or the other of them was ringing up my house phone at all times of the day and night. When I finally pulled the phone cord out of the wall, they called my cell phone. I turned it off and hid it in my sock drawer.

Cuddy had a hospital to run, so it was mostly Wilson she dispatched to keep checking up on me. When I disabled all the phones, he used his own key that I had given him in an insane moment years before, and let himself in. He would 'mother-hen' me; clean up the living room and burn the pizza boxes in my fireplace. He would change my bed, practically carry me to the bathroom and see that I cleaned myself up. He once said I looked good unshaven, because the scruff hid the hollows in my cheeks that marked the weight I'd lost while dealing with the pain.

That might have been the turning point for my willingness to begin recovery, because I adopted the scruffy look as though it had been my own idea. Damn him! He would check the wound on my leg and bandage it when it needed bandaging and sometimes apply a heating pad when the skittery muscle remnants threatened to go into spasm. I would bat his hands away and berate him for everything he did to help. I tried very hard to chase him away so he would let me alone and get a life. He would ignore me and cook us a meal or send for 'healthy' take-out. When I yelled, he ignored me. When I became abusive, he would simply move to another room and return when I ran out of insults.

Now here I sit, thinking about the article I have just composed … the stupid, incomprehensible article written for only one purpose: to get the attention of the one person I knew who faithfully read medical journals. And I smile to myself. We are joined at the hip, Wilson and me. We always were and we always will be. I miss him, and I will find him if it takes the rest of my life.

I heard the dune buggy before I saw it.

I heard the "putt-putt-chug-putt-putt" of the motor coming up past the Tiki Bar. I heard the whoops and hollers and shouted greetings as Hooley raced past the crowd of people that seemed to hang there day and night, and I heard him give a war-whoop in return and hit the anemic little horn of the beast as he answered their greetings.

I had to smile to myself further as the bright orange buggy bounced into sight in a shower of sand in front of the cabin. Hooley grinned up at me from behind a pair of shades so dark that they blotted out his eyes. "I see you are out and about today," he teased as he hopped lightly out of the vehicle and hurried around to the passenger side.

"Oh yeah … Callaway went thataway …"

I watched him remove the sunglasses and reach into the back. He then upended what appeared to be a very large wooden box and raise it to his shoulder. Then I realized …

"You asked for a radio, eh, Mon? I brought you a **RADIO!** This one probably broadcast Franklin Delano Roosevelt declaring war on Japan!" He was grinning ear to ear, and soon I was laughing with him, as excited as a kid with a new toy.

I hitched myself out of my chair and reached down for the arm crutches ...

I followed him inside as he set the thing on the floor. It was big. It came up beyond my waist, and I'm a tall guy. Mouth hanging open like an oven door, I walked around it, peering at it from all sides. It was a powerful old Zenith floor model, probably manufactured in the late thirties. The dark wood cabinet was beautifully crafted; walnut, maybe? It had a large, round, black dial, and I could see that it was rigged for AM, FM and short wave. I could probably bring in stations from Tokyo if I wanted. The back of the case was open, the hard cardboard dust protector probably disintegrated years before. I could see inside the base that held the vacuum tubes, the speaker and the other electrical components that I knew nothing about.

My leg suddenly didn't hurt and I was grinning again. "This is beautiful, Hooley. Thank you. Does it work?"

He pretended to be insulted, but I knew better.

"Ah, Kyle Calloway … would I bring you a radio that does not work?

"Would you like me to plug it in?"

61


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Running the Gauntlet"

"I'LL PLUG IT IN," HOOLEY ANNOUNCED. "WANT TO TURN IT ON?" HE WAS UNROLLING A LONG HEAVY-DUTY EXTENSION CORD.

 _*DO I WANT TO TURN IT ON? DOES A BUFFALO WANT TO CRAP ON THE PRARIE? OF COURSE I WANT TO TURN IT ON! ACTUALLY THOUGH, I SHOULD TRY TO BE MORE ACCOMMODATING …*_

"DAMN RIGHT I DO!" I GROWLED AS I GRIPPED THE CRUTCHES AND FOLLOWED HIM INSIDE WHERE HE LOWERED THE BIG RADIO GENTLY ONTO THE FLOOR. BOTH OF US STOOD AND STARED AT IT AS THOUGH IT MIGHT BEGIN TO DANCE THE VIRGINIA REEL. BUT IT DIDN'T DO ANYTHING; JUST STOOD AND STARED AT US WITH THAT BIG BLACK CIRCLE THAT WAS THE TUNING DIAL.

I MARVELED AT ITS CONSTRUCTION … THE BEAUTIFUL WOOD CABINET, THE HUGE DIAL FACE, THE ROWS OF PUSH-BUTTONS FOR AUTOMATIC TUNING, AND THE BAKELITE SPINNERS: SMALL ONE TO TURN IT ON, LARGE ONE TO TUNE IN STATIONS MANUALLY; AND THE LEVER BELOW THEM THAT CHANGED THE FREQUENCIES FROM AM TO FM TO SHORT WAVE. THIS WAS ZENITH AT ITS … WELL … ZENITH. IT HAD TO BE AT LEAST SEVENTY FIVE OR EIGHTY YEARS OLD. HOOLEY PLUGGED THE RADIO'S CORD INTO THE EXTENSION CORD, AND I TOUCHED THE SMALLEST KNOB REVERENTLY; ALMOST LIKE CARESSING THE FUR OF OLD STEVE McQUEEN WITH ONE FINGER …

A HUGE RUMBLE OF SOUND ENGULFED THE CABIN'S INTERIOR AND OVERFLOWED. WE BOTH JUMPED BACK IN ALARM. EARSPLITTING STATIC AND A CRACKLING ROAR SURROUNDED US AS THOUGH WE WERE CRASHING THROUGH THE UNDERBRUSH IN THE MIDST OF A HERD OF KANGAROOS … IN A HAIL OF GUNFIRE.

"HEY MON …" HOOLEY EXCLAIMED, "COULD YOU TURN THE VOLUME DOWN AND FIND A STATION? MY EARS ARE EXPLODING."

MINE TOO. I TURNED THE VOLUME KNOB COUNTER-CLOCKWISE UNTIL THJE OVERWHELMING ROAR HUSHED DOWN TO A SIZZLE. I TURNED THE LARGE SPINNER BEHIND THE SMALL ONE, AND THE CRACKLE QUICKLY DIMINISHED. AT THE TOP OF THE DIAL, A DIME-SIZED BRIGHT GREEN LIGHT FLUCTUATED MADLY WITH THE SPIN OF THE TUNING KNOB. I WAS FASCINATED. IT LOOKED LIKE A HUGE ELECTRIC EYE FOLLOWING EVERY MOVE I MADE.

THEN THE GRID FOUND A STATION, AND THERE WAS A SUDDEN BURST OF MUSIC. IT WAS CRYSTAL CLEAR, LIKE IT WAS COMING FROM THE NEXT ROOM. IF THERE HAD BEEN A NEXT ROOM. WONDERFUL SOUND. THE GREEN EYE STEADIED AND I DECIDED THAT IT WAS THERE TO TELL THE LISTENER WHEN THE TUNER WAS PRECISELY CENTERED ON A STATION. THE SPEAKER WAS JUST AS GOOD AS TODAY'S STEREO, EXCEPT FORTY YEARS OLDER.

I STOOD ENTRANCED, BENT OVER, BOTH HANDS PROPPED ON MY HEALTHY KNEE IN AS MUCH AN ATTITUDE OF NIRVANA AS I'D EVER BEEN. THE CRUTCHES HAD LONG SINCE FALLEN FROM MY GRASP AND LAY ON THE FLOOR AT MY FEET AS I SWAYED TO THE RHYTHM.

I REMEMBERED MY MOM AND DAD DANCING TO SUCH MUSIC WHEN I WAS A VERY LITTLE KID.

STRANGE, THE MEMORIES MUSIC CAN EVOKE: NAMES AND PLACES … WORLDS AWAY AND AGES IN THE PAST. THE SONG SWITCHED AND I RECOGNIZED THE SMOOTH STRAINS OF "PENNY SERENADE"

I looked up, finally, to see Hooley watching me with a strange expression.

"What?"

He continued to look at me with a stance of alarm, while that wonderful melody transfixed my consciousness.

Then I got it. Abruptly. I was pain-free and in another world. As I was straightening up, a wave of pain engulfed me so completely that my knees buckled. I'd have fallen flat if he hadn't leapt across the floor so quickly and with such power that the entire cabin vibrated on its shaky legs.

He caught me just before I would have hit the floor, and lowered me onto my ass in a single motion. I sat gasping, trying to reconcile what had just taken place, attempting to form words that wouldn't come. The grind of the sudden spasm held me immobile, and I quickly doubled up, bent over it, embraced it, both hands clenching hard over the damaged nerve endings that triggered it.

The radio segued into Perry Como's "Round 'n' Round", and I could hear every syllable, every nuance of instrumentation and background singers as though I was right there in that recording studio in 1956, playing studio piano myself. The pain geography made the fever of the illusion that much clearer.

I was gasping, my pulse rate climbing. I wanted to cry out, but I was too weak even to do that. I was a micro-something in a Petrie dish, exsanguinating under the eye of a microscope. The radio was playing "There I've Said it Again" by Vaughn Monroe. Low and slow and mellow. I was rigid and trembling and unable to move. The next thing I knew was Hooley's hands under both arms, hauling me to my feet and dragging me to the bed. I think I passed out.

When I awoke it was dark. My hearing was so acute that waves lapping languidly on the shore sounded like a dog drinking from a water dish right next to my ear. The big radio was turned off, and moved over to stand near the foot of my bed. It stood silent as a sentinel on guard near a castle's moat. Hooley sat nearby in one of the old recliners. He had not disturbed me while I lay like a corpse. He was leafing through an old magazine that he'd found somewhere …

When I stirred, disoriented, I heard him slap the thing down and move to my side. "You forgot yourself, Mon," he said softly. "If this is how you react when I bring gifts, I will bring no more gifts …" The look in his eyes told me he was teasing. Maybe a little rattled at a situation that could have gotten out of hand. "How do you feel?"

The question startled me. I honestly didn't know. I felt like I was suspended in mid-air with static electricity radiating outward from my body; dangling like a wire broken off from its connection. I lay still, staring at him stupidly.

"Kyle Calloway?"

The name did not register.

" _Gregory House … s_ peak to me!"

That did it. My index finger found its way to my lips: "Shhh …" I felt like I'd been hit with a two-by-four and doused with cold water. "We don't … talk about him …"

Hooley stood with hands on hips, unbelieving. "It has occurred to me that some of the pain and confusion you experience from time to time might indeed have to do with some of the things from your past that are still locked away in the mind of Gregory House."

I was quickly doing a slow burn. He noticed. "The pain is **not** in my head!"

"Do not become upset, please. I am not wishing to destroy your trust in me. It is just a notion I have. Your leg pain seems to be increasing rather than diminishing since you've been here … and I have had to administer morphine three times. That is too often. I suspect you have unresolved issues from your former life, and they may be adding to your distress. I know your leg injury is painful, for I have seen it and I have seen what it does to you. But there are hurtful things you haven't worked out in your own mind, and I wish you would try. I will now shut up, for that is all I have to say."

I glared at him, but he did not back down. He stood relaxed and waiting for an answer. Or not. I knew the next move was up to me. "I don't know if I can," I said quietly.

"I will not press you," he said. "But it is the elephant in the room, I think. Something in your heart is causing you so much pain that it is adding to the distress in your leg. If you deal with the first, then the second may be diminished also."

I sighed and nodded. "I have to think about it, but sometimes the thinking is more painful than the doing. Talking about my own shortcomings has always been the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Guess that's why I always shy away from it. Don't you ever get sick and tired of babysitting me, Hooley?"

He smiled at me as a father would smile at a three-year-old. "Oh yeah … sick of you all the way up to the bell on my hat. When I came here today it was not only to bring the radio, but to ask if you would like to go down to Amos's place tonight. I thought you would like a change of scenery, but we both know that is not possible now. Perhaps in a few days we can try again."

"You just admitted you were sick of me."

"Indeed, but it is transitory and you are my client. There are times when I am less sick of you than others. Tonight I am glad I was here to help. You should never be left alone with antique radios."

I glared at him, but he paid no attention and continued.

"I am also learning about you, and you are a challenge. You hide things; things I need to know, but have to figure out by watching you. You pretend you are okay when you are not. You evade every question when I need information and not a debate. I have never met a more stubborn man. But there is a delicate edge of decency to you that is most refreshing, and I wish to absorb more of it. I will work with you as long as you will allow me, and I am believing the association is mutually beneficial, eh Kyle Calloway?"

Suddenly were both laughing, the tension of the recent incident draining away. We made arrangements to spend the evening at Amos's bar two nights hence … if I didn't kill myself first.

"I'll try to get it together and talk to you about the stuff I did back in the states that I'm ashamed of … and maybe I can get it ironed out about what's _really_ bugging me …"

"I am willing to wait however long it takes until you are ready, Mon."

I thanked him …

I let him pull off my shoe and socks because I couldn't begin to do it alone, but the cutoffs stayed where they were for the night. I thanked him for the radio, and for the invitation to Amos's Tiki Bar, and I felt myself getting groggy, my eyes heavy with sleep.

I heard Hooley leave in the dune buggy shortly after.

The next time I opened my eyes, daylight was only a thin purple line across the horizon. There was a nightlight turned on near the stove, and a tiny circle of illumination around it looked like a little Klieg light turned on a miniature stage. Maybe the Palmetto bugs were staging their version of a Broadway Musical. The radio was playing softly.

At the moment I was pain-free and I lay very still, appreciating it. The background to the music came from the slapping of the waves on the beach across from me. It was a little like #5 sticks on one snare drum and the snares kicked loose on the other one. Not much bass drum; just a kiss. Brushes on the high hat. The music and the ocean were in rhythm with one another and it was a very pleasant musical sensation.

I listened as long as I dared, but Mother Nature was calling and it was time to drag myself into the head to water the lilies. The arm canes were at the foot of the bed and I maneuvered around to grasp them and make my way into the bath to turn on the light.

While I sat on the throne, I bent over and reinspected the wound and the newest scar tissue. It was healing slowly and there was no longer the opening in the skin that sometimes leaked blood. I touched the fragile skin very gently and decided to use only a large gel pad over the area. I wrapped it loosely with one of the elastic bandages to keep the stitches stable.

As I was finishing up, something went _*CLANG-KLUNK-KA-CLUNK*_ beneath me, and it scared the crap out of me. There was a hissing sound next, and a metallic _*CLANK-DING*_ and then nothing. I sat up straight and listened like a startled cat.

 _*What the hell was that?*_

That quickly, I stood and pulled up the cutoffs. I slid my left foot into the sneaker, grabbed the arm canes again and limped as fast as possible to the front door.

I guess I had visions of bags of contraband and drug dealers that sold them illegally. Were they armed with guns and knives and garrotes and brass knuckles? Thin, clandestine men wearing masks and black boots … and this poor old cripple gamely beating them back and being hailed as a hero for using a clumsy left-handed roundhouse punch …

 _*What a bunch of bullshit!*_

The Walter-Mitty fantasy went 'pop' in my head when I made it to the door.

Cautiously I eased through and slipped onto the porch. I couldn't see much of anything out back because of the bushes lining the edge of the cabin. So I did my 'sit-and-slither' routine to get down the steps. If I couldn't see the intruder, then whoever was banging around out back couldn't see me either.

I gathered the crutches and snuck toward the corner of the building; paused a moment to calm my racing heart, and stood still to get my bearings. There were still clanking sounds emanating from back there, and I wondered what was going on. It was almost full daylight now, and if this was supposed to be a covert caper, then why the hell all the noise?

I braced myself with false boldness and peered around the corner toward the tank farm. I was quickly deflated by one of those *ahhh shit!* moments.

What I saw was not a Latino man dressed in black, but a black man dressed in white. In his hands was a long rubber hose, and parked right behind him, engine running, was a big, six-wheeler tanker truck with its lights blinking and the logo: "MUNICIPAL" painted on the side. I was having my water tank refilled, and what I had heard from inside was the scrape of the access lid being unscrewed, the hose nozzle hitting the lip of the water tank, the groan of the compressor, and the surge of water as it was being transferred from delivery truck to customer.

I stomped around the corner and made my way toward the man who held the hose. The relief of knowing what was going on and my trepidation and curiosity being satisfied all at the same time, gave my leg pain a chance to reemerge …

The guy with the hose saw me wince as a mild spasm hit, and he almost dropped the hose. "Y'all okay, Buddy?" He asked with a pure-as-hell southern Virginia USA drawl.

I answerd him quickly. "Yeah … I'm fine … just a little sore today. The clanking out here startled me and I came out to see what it was."

"Yeah … well … it's me. I fill the water tanks over here every other month. Yours is the biggest, so it takes every drop this old beater can carry. I'll go back to town and fill up, then deliver to Amos and the Barringtons down thatway."

"Okay," I said. "Interesting that this tank is bigger than the one at Amos's place. He does a good business."

The guy grinned. "Yeah … and it's interesting that you would pick up on that right away. 'Course, ol' man Packard dragged the water tank an' the generator all the way from the states. He wanted to see how the setup would work … and I guess you know by now that it does."

I wasn't sure who he was talking about, but I decided it must be my landlord, whom I'd never met. I didn't want to get into a discussion now. I nodded, but didn't comment.

I watched him shut down the compressor, withdraw the hose and screw the cap back on the lip of the water tank. As I rounded the corner of the cabin and headed for the steps, I heard him rev the engine and retract the hose onto the reel on the truck.

I sat down quickly on the middle step and paused to rub the area over the scar. The bandage prevented me from getting much relief. I moved up the other two steps until I was sitting on the porch and watched the tanker withdraw from behind the cabin and back out onto the beach. The driver honked the horn once and waved.

I waved back.

Inside I sat for awhile, letting the cramp ease up. I tuned the radio to a station in London and listened to a medley by The Beatles. I made bacon and eggs and toast for breakfast, and a pot of coffee. Ten minutes after that I was at the sink washing dishes and nipping at a second cup of coffee. It was full daylight and heating up outside. There were birds bickering away about something … maybe one of the local monkeys was stealing their breakfast …

I unrolled the bandage again and stared at the scar that had almost doubled in size since the infarction. It had a long way to go before this most recent blemish became as gnarled and hardened as the old scar. I was very angry with myself over it. I had no one to blame for its presence except myself. Because of my own stupidity I was on crutches, and there was a chance I would never get off them. It preyed on my mind like a kid picking at a scab until it bled … over and over again.

Maybe this was the thing that kept eating away at me that I couldn't talk about, as Hooley had suggested. Maybe he was right, and it needed to be hauled out into the open. Maybe it was strangling me. But even the thought of a 'confession' gave me cold chills down my spine. Right now, I simply didn't have the guts …

My leg was achy and the discomfort escalated every time I tried to place weight on it. My cane might have to hang on the bed rail for the next millennium.

The day's exercises exhausted me and I sweated out the pain afterward. No Vicodin.

I changed the station on the radio and sat in one of the old recliners to rest and recover.

After catnapping most of the afternoon, when I finally came to and got up to go the head, I was surprised to see that the sun was setting beyond the ocean.

Another day wasted …

68


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"Oh What A Night!"

AFTER TWO STRAIGHT DAYS OF LOAFING, NAPPING AND EXISTING ON VODKA, VICODIN AND JUNK FOOD, I DECIDED I WAS READY TO TAKE A STAB AT THE REAL WORLD. FRIDAY MORNING I SHOVED THE ARM CANES BACK UNDER THE BED AND RESUMED HOBBLING WITH MY CANE. I DID MY EXERCISES IN THE MORNING, AND THE MUSCLE BURN HAD ME BITING MY LIP 'TIL IT BLED. BUT I KNEW I COULDN'T QUIT.

 _*DO THE EXERCISES: WALK. DON'T DO THE EXERCISES: WALK WITH CRUTCHES.*_

IT WAS THAT SIMPLE. I VOWED TO DO THE DAMNED EXERCISES UNTIL MY BUTT SAGGED AND MY BALLS SCRAPED THE FLOOR. IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING …

Around noon, still achy and sweating like a pig, I turned on the radio, searching for classical music to calm my nerves. I seldom listen to classical anymore because few stations opt to play it. The popular stuff rules. Today's music; synonymous with 'up-to-date'. Noisy, clangy 'tear-the-strings-off-the-guitar' songs. Strident voices, panicky and vibrating like they've been threaded with static electricity, seem to be the norm. Phrases repeated over and over a dozen times pass as lyrics, and I'm kind of tired of that.

Finally, I found a classical NPR station all the way up in Palm Beach … the land of rich old farts who play golf, do 'feelies' with every titty within reach, dine in fancy restaurants with saggy wives, and listen to symphonies when nothing more stimulating is imminent. I set the station on automatic and adjusted the volume. Mozart's "Magic Flute".

I showered in the hottest water I could stand, moaning happily at the marvelous things the heat did for my sore muscles, and then dried myself down and stood in front of the mirror staring at my Rin Tin Tin look. I dug out the clippers, the sharp little scissors and the shaving kit and got to work on the trimming.

Ten minutes later a different face emerged from behind the whiskers and I was a little amazed at the difference. The mustache was somewhere between a "Tom Selleck" and an "Alex Trebek"; noticeable and kinda grey, but not lavish. I pared my thin sideburns to extend downward and join with the beard, sculpted close to the skin, but still a little longer than the scruff had been.

Hmmm … there wasn't much of Gregory House left under there anymore. This new guy was much too 'crippled-greyhound' and too well groomed. Rin Tin Tin was gone. But the 'Kyle Calloway' persona was emerging, at least visually. What I had to do now was figure out a way to unite the Calloway with the House and bring out the best of both. A very large undertaking, I thought. I had to laugh at that, because even in my own head, it sounded like a bad joke.

I dug through one of my suitcases and found a clean pair of jeans … not yet bloodied … and got them out. A tee-shirt and a button-down would do. Tonight's excursion was informal. I hadn't worn my blue sport jacket since the night Hooley first brought me to the cabin, so I hung it on the back of one of the straight chairs to shed some of the wrinkles. In the dim light at the bar, I figured nobody would notice anyhow … or give a shit.

Another moment of scrutiny in front of the mirror told me I looked a little less like a beggar and more like an impaired athlete … a contradiction in terms if ever there was one. Well … you know … in case there were ladies to be wooed … and who might woo back …

My leg is still healing slowly, so I limited the bandage to one of the elastics. I want to make a good impression tonight, and to me that means doing what I can to minimize the limp and maximize the charm. Tall order. I've lived with being an angry cripple so long that it defines who I am. People stay clear of me because I've almost forgotten how to smile. Tonight I will endeavor to change that.

 _*I meander around inside my own head a lot. Solitary people are known to do that. I mourn the once-powerful physicality I no longer possess. I'm past the age where I can masquerade as 'macho', but maybe 'charming' will work if I can fake it long enough. I'm not sure if my efforts to present a pleasing facade will be accepted by anyone, or even put me into a place where I sense encouragement. I haven't had much practice, but tonight will be a good place to start …*_

I sit here daydreaming, forming piano fingerings in the air in tune with the music, and thinking I need to go through my suitcases and place some stuff on closet shelves before they begin to mildew. There are some wire hangers in there and it wouldn't hurt to hang up some of the shirts. Maybe I will do that tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next day my leg doesn't hurt from the damn exercises …

A fleeting image of Wilson fritters through the murky mental undertow. I wonder how he's doing, and if he's still pissed off at me for breaking his damn arm. Wouldn't blame him if he is.

I sent the incomprehensible Nephrology article to the California Medical Journel today. Wondering about Wilson made me think of it …

Afternoon is turning to evening. In the bathroom I stare again into the mirror, studying the persona I'm working to create. The lines in my face all point downward, and I feel a desperate need to change it. Somehow I despair of ever getting it right, because as soon as I let my guard down, Gregory House growls his way through and cold cocks Kyle Calloway. I can't let him do that anymore. I can't!

I can't!

Hooley arrived just as the sun was setting. He too had cleaned up and doused himself with cologne that immediately gave me a sneezing fit. He laughed at me. "You overdo the theatrics, Mon. It is only Canoe. You, however, look almost like a gentleman. I am impressed, but wondering if you should use the cane. But that is your decision. Are you up for an evening of mad celebration?"

I snorted. "I can celebrate you under the table anytime, day or night, Buster," I declared indignantly.

I couldn't help but marvel at the change in him. I was so used to seeing him in the casual costume of the island that it surprised me when he showed up in long trousers, a dress shirt, dark dress shoes and **no** yarn hat with a bell on it. In fact, no hat at all. I tried to hide my surprise at the fact that, except for a ring of coal-black hair circling around the back of his head and crawling across his jaw, Hooley Puli was bald as a billiard ball.

I balanced on the cane and carefully levered myself into the dune buggy. Hooley watched in silent disapproval until I got settled, and then walked around to the driver's side and hefted himself in quickly. I hoped he would not babysit me tonight …

 _*Change of scenery, here we come!*_

Amos's Tiki Bar was rocking with Beatles tunes that reverberated outward and caused ripples in the water by the shore. At least it seemed that way. It was a welcome change. There was dancing and loud conversation and glasses overflowing. And laughter. Especially the laughter. Hooley and I walked slowly across the cement patio, almost rubbing shoulders, and I resigned myself to the fact that I would be beneath his protective wing all night.

Bright colored lanterns were strung between the trees, and a small crowd of teenagers contorted to 'Hard Day's Night" as we threaded our way among them. Hooley picked our pathway with great caution and I knew the calm Jamaican was busy running interference for me. Up on the restaurant floor where the storm shutters were wide open and the bar was well stocked, I sensed a hush falling over the crowd. Amos paused to wave to Hooley and Hooley waved back. Bar patrons responded at once by pausing to wave also, checking to see what the point of interest might be.

There were breaths drawn in surprise from the drinking clientele as some of the older residents began to recognize their tricked-out island nurse in the company of the sullen drunk that had interrupted their gathering six or seven weeks before. I heard an undertone of comments, but the general din masked any understanding of the words.

Hooley steered my steps unobtrusively as he escorted me to the bar where there remained a single empty stool. He guided me onto it with both hands steadying my shoulders while I grumbled to myself at his solicitude. Actually I was happy to take the load off. Pain was beginning to nag at my thigh like a bumble bee, but I was damned if I'd let it show. Old habits die hard …

Beside me, one of the old guys I remembered from before, got up and surrendered his seat to Hooley. Hooley was generous with his thanks, and moved to sit down beside me. I showed my gratitude with a scowl, which he laughed off and acknowledged by nudging me in the shoulder.

"Cool down, Mon!" he said softly. "Cool. Let them see you smile. It will make the process of acceptance much easier. They want nothing more than to like you."

 _*Oops …*_

I traded the sour look for something more upside-down, and got a toothy grin in response.

Immediately, two Mai Tais appeared on the bar in front of us. My forced smile turned to a real grin. Beside my hand stood a fancy glass that held what looked more like a flower arrangement than a real drink. A large pineapple ring rode the brim, and it was speared through with a long plastic nail, already holding a half slice of lime and a maraschino cherry. A tiny umbrella hung over the edge of the glass, and atop the liquid floated a lotus blossom … I think. To me the appearance was good enough. I stuck my finger in and removed the flower and the umbrella. I slid the pineapple and cherry off the nail and chomped them happily.

Amos stood in front of us with arms folded, watching for reactions. Hooley had already eaten the fruit and placed the lime peel and umbrella on the bar. He was taking his second slug of the rum mixture. Not to be outdone, I quickly followed suit, lifting the glass and practically inhaling half the drink at once.

 _*WOW!*_

Back at the cabin I'd been imbibing vodka and was unprepared for the sweetness of the Mai Tai. When it hit my throat I almost choked myself to death. When I caught my breath and looked up, Amos still had his arms folded, but he was laughing so hard his eyes were watering. Beside me Hooley was laughing too. At the other end of the bar, the two old guys were grinning like hyenas and holding up their glasses in a toast. (They reminded me of the two old guys in the balcony on "The Muppet Show".)

I could feel my face reddening and the anger roiling up. Hooley's elbow dug into my ribcage with a cautionary warning that immediately burst the balloon and brought my body temperature back to manageable levels. I looked up sheepishly and realized I was not being patronized or being made fun of in any way other than normal man-type teasing. I raised my glass in a salute of awkward friendship and forced another smile from behind the new arrangement of facial hair. I let the smile build, trying to make it seem more natural.

Across the bar from us, Amos looked me square in the eye and winked and nodded. Had I just run some sort of gauntlet? I was sensing approval without challenge, and that felt good. As Amos moved away to wait on other customers, the two old guys down the bar held their glasses aloft again and said in unison: "Salute, Kyle Calloway!"

Hooley and I returned their gesture. This time the smiling thing got a little easier. Practice-practice-practice.

Down the length of bar I watched Amos and his staff of brightly clad young ones as they moved about making drinks and bantering with the customers. Amos wasn't what I would have called good looking. His features were mostly along the Asian line, but he was young, slender and neat about his person; not running to fat like many of the restaurateurs I had met. His black hair was straight and shoulder-length, cut on an angle and framing his face like a fur hat. His eyes were black also, and had an almost rascally twinkle about them. He was obviously popular with the people he served.

I'd been pretty much all over the world as a kid, but this place was different in a unique way I couldn't quite define. Maybe it was because here on Barbados there is such a mixture of nationalities that there are no racial barriers. The population gets along because they're located at the heart of the tourist business and have no other choice. Nobody has any axes to grind, and they live together amiably because they want to. In a person-to-person situation, everyone is just like every other beneath the skin.

I was good with that. I thought of John Lennon's _"Imagine"._

Absently I let my attention wander about the place as I sat there. Hooley was talking to the woman in the seat next to him, and I got the impression that she might be one of his clients. My leg began to remind me that a bar stool was not the best place for it to be, and I massaged it back into submission.

Amos had a few pretty young women working the tables and behind the bar; tending the grille and making drinks. My appreciative eyes followed two of them: a pretty Polynesian and an equally pretty blonde who reminded me a bit of Allison Cameron. Both of them glanced around from time to time, alert for drink orders from the tables. Both of them looked me in the eye in a teasing manner as they moved about their work. A few carnal thoughts drifted in and around my head every time it happened. It caused me to massage my leg a little harder each time. Damn!

Elsewhere in the large room it was crowded, but not packed. Conversation and laughter ebbed and flowed like the tide and combined in a pleasant manner as it blended with the music from the juke box in the corner. I watched the interactions with interest. Very seldom in my post-infarction life had I ever willingly joined in on a friendly gathering such as this. I wasn't sure if I had been missing something significant that I'd never embraced before … or if I was just confused at having recently rediscovered the art of human interaction and trying to figure out exactly what it was and what it meant to me personally.

As I scanned the room further, I suddenly frowned when my eyes settled on a Latino man of small stature, sitting at a table with three larger men of the same ethnicity. All were dressed similarly in the light-colored clothing of physical laborers often seen on this island. All three had variations of bronze, sun-darkened skin, black hair and uncut whiskers. They were deep in whispered conversation.

I straightened on my stool to watch them … unobtrusively. The smaller one would probably not recognize me even if he looked at me head-on. I turned my full attention quickly to that man. On his right cheek was the mark that a few weeks ago I had assumed was a smudge of dirt. This was the man I'd seen behind the cabin, concealed behind bushes and high grasses; stealing along slowly, stealthily, in an effort to avoid being seen as I staggered about out there, limping with clumsy effort on the arm canes, checking the arrangement of the jury rigged fuel and water tanks and the odd generator. Now I realized that the dark smudge on the man's face was not dirt, but a large mole, trying hard to be a carcinoma. Or worse.

From time to time all four men would avert their eyes and cast glances around the room, looking for who-knew what. I kept my line of sight intentionally above their heads, not risking eye contact and alarming them. As long as I did not get up to walk around, I decided I was pretty anonymous. After a time, they stopped paying attention to the rest of the room and continued their low-key conversation.

I waited for a lull in the dialogue between Hooley and the woman beside him. I took a sip from my second Mai Tai and poked him in the arm with my elbow.

He turned to look at me, half alarmed. "You okay, Mon?"

I sighed.

"I'm fine. Don't move your head. Just your eyes. Four men: table at four o'clock. Don't stare."

I felt the atmosphere change nominally as his body shifted. He picked up his drink and tilted his head back to drain it. Peripherally I saw his eyes scanning like searchlights. Then he stilled. Nodded once. He set his glass on the bar and turned to me. "I see them. Two of them are brothers I have seen before. They have a fishing boat. I don't know the other two."

"You _know_ them?" I whispered. "Well, guess what … the one with the mole on his face is the dude I saw sneaking around the cabin the day you caught me checking out the fuel and water tanks."

"Ah … Kyle Calloway … this is most disturbing. Yes, I know the two men on the left. They have moved their fishing boat between the islands for years. I will talk to Amos and he will call Packy on the radio. We will check it out, perhaps call the authorities. Are you certain?"

I grinned. "Certain as I know my name aint Kyle Calloway!"

74


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"The Big Blow"

IT WAS RAINING LIKE HELL WHEN I WOKE UP …

"CATS & DOGS", AS THEY SAY. GAINING WHIPLASH VELOCITY AS I CAME FULLY AWAKE.

THE ENTIRE AREA AROUND THE CABIN WAS DESERTED EXCEPT FOR LEAVES AND STRAW AND BLACKENED SEAWEED AND OTHER WIND-DRIVEN DEBRIS. EVERYTHING WAS SPIRALING SKYWARD AHEAD OF THE GALE THAT PROPELLED IT ALONG THE BEACH IN THE DIRECTION OF AMOS'S BAR.

I RAISED MY HEAD AND STARED BLEARILY OUT THE DOOR IN THE DIRECTION OF THE OCEAN. WIND HAD SCRUBBED EVERYTHING CLEAN, AND WHAT VEGETATION SURVIVED INTACT LOOKED TO BE TRYING TO EXTRACT THEIR ROOTS FROM THE GROUND TO FOLLOW IN THE SAME GENERAL PATH. HOW IN HELL HAD I MANAGED TO SLEEP THROUGH THIS? THE SCREAMING OF THE WIND AROUND THE SHARP EDGES OF THE CABIN SHOULD HAVE WAKENED THE DEAD. THE WAY MY HEAD WAS POUNDING TOLD ME I HAD PROBABLY VISITED THE LAND OF THE DEPARTED WHILE SLEEPING OFF ONE HELL OF A HANGOVER. I'D HAD A GOOD TIME LAST NIGHT … IN FACT, MORE FUN THAN I COULD REMEMBER HAVING IN A LONG TIME. EXCEPT MAYBE RIGHT UP TO THE END …

AMOS AND HIS STAFF HAD PROBABLY LOCKED UP HIS PLACE; ALL TIED DOWN TIGHT. THE SAME WOULD BE THE BEST CASE SCENARIO FOR ALL THE OTHER INHABITANTS ALONG THE PATH OF THIS STORM. ALL OF US AT THE BAR LAST NIGHT KNEW IT WAS COMING BY THE SUDDEN CHANGE IN ATMOSPHERIC PRESSURE. THE WINDS HAD PICKED UP AND THE RAIN BEGUN; MILD AT FIRST, BUT BUILDING QUICKLY AS THE EVENING WORE ON. BY MIDNIGHT THE PALM TREES WERE SLASHING THEIR BRANCHES THROUGH THE AIR AND WE ALL KNEW WE SHOULD HELP BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES AT THE TIKI BAR AND HEAD FOR WHEREVER 'HOME' WAS.

I WONDERED BRIEFLY ABOUT HOOLEY. HE'D DRIVEN ME BACK TO THE CABIN, ASSISTED ME INSIDE THROUGH STEADY RAIN, AND THEN SKEDADDLED. I HAD NO IDEA WHERE HE LIVED. IT WAS NONE OF MY BUSINESS; JUST A MOMENT OR TWO OF PASSING CONCERN …

THUNDEROUS, BUCKET-SIZE GLOBS HIT LIKE TIDAL WAVES ON THE CABIN'S ROOF. DROPS OF FRIGID WATER BLEW ALL THE WAY ACROSS TO MY BED, AND COLD SPLATTERS HIT ME WHERE I LAY. CHILLED WATER DROPLETS SLICED THROUGH THE MOSQUITO NETTING, WAKING ME FROM A BOOZY SLEEP.

Still only half conscious, I rolled out of bed, threw back the netting and staggered crazily toward the windows, slamming shutters against the rising wind. By the time I'd secured them all, my leg burned with pain and I had no idea what had become of my cane. If I hadn't been fully awake before, I was now. At the front door I shoved with the heel of my left hand, expecting the latch to hold and make the place secure. But that didn't happen. I had no strength to exert pressure against the wood and hold off the gale forces that pushed back. Water was still leaking in underneath the door and advancing across the floor, making the footing treacherous. The pants of my threadbare old scrubs were soaked with sea-water almost to the knees. I had one chance left to get the damn door shut before I had to swim back to the bed.

Clutching the door's edge, I strained against it with my opposite shoulder, pushing with my strong left leg until a momentary break in the wind let me slam it closed and secure the latch. Outside, the wind took hold again, forming tiny funnel clouds of whirling sand and dark particles of debris. Beautiful but deadly. Fascinated by nature's power, I watched them whirl and twirl like tiny flamenco dancers.

Bizarre!

It was as though the cabin was riding the eye of a hurricane; buttressed by pockets of turbulence all around it.

 _*What the hell am I thinking? This_ _ **is**_ _a hurricane!*_

I could not see past the front yard. Hooley's dune-buggy parking space was obliterated; heaped with sand mounds and mud, crisscrossed with small ruts and wandering pebbles and stones from further up the beach. The ocean was nearly invisible, and the front yard was transformed; almost unrecognizable.

This was the closest I had ever been to an actual hurricane. Shit … I was right in the middle of it. All around me I felt the cabin straining and fighting for stability against the wind. The roof vibrated overhead as the squall line dug powerful fingers into the spaces where the boards were secured to the studs. So far the cabin was holding … rattling and hammering like a drunk with DTs. But holding …

I was scared out of my wits and would have run out of there in fear for my life … except there was nowhere to run that the wind and rain couldn't have got me in a microsecond … and my ability to run was nonexistent. So I had to hunker down and ride it out.

Jagged spikes of lightning, punctuated with cringe-worthy peals of thunder, made the place vibrate like it was going to turn and run for the hills. Ghostly halos of light glowed eerily around the edges of the windows and the door as I stood shaking like a drowning dog. The phenomenon made the world seem like something from a bad dream. And it was. I damn near wet my pants, which were already wet.

The storm rattled everything it could possibly rattle, and shook everything it could shake. Unknown objects slammed down on the roof and hit the side of the cabin again and again. I jumped in alarm every time, and waited for something dangerous to fly through a hole in the wall and land at my feet. I kept looking around nervously, expecting dishes to start flinging themselves off the shelves.

I hobbled over to the big radio and dragged it to the middle of the room. I pulled out the plug and threw one of the few dry blankets over it. I would _not_ lose my only source of entertainment! In a moment of terrified levity, I imagined the thing as E.T. hiding in a closet, surrounded by toys.

Berating myself in the middle of all this turbulence, I wondered why the hell I hadn't battened down the hatches when I got back to the cabin last night. The storm was already gaining strength while we raced up the beach in the dune buggy. Why hadn't Hooley given me a heads-up? Actually I knew the answer to that as soon as I asked the question. It wasn't Hooley's fault. We were both too damn hammered to put one foot in front of another without falling on our faces.

And here I was … Robinson Caruso … penned in a rickety cabin … and my man Friday had flown off down the beach. It was fuckin' funny! My nervous laughter was threaded with a tinge of hysteria …

For the rest of the afternoon I sat on the edge of the bed wrapped in a blanket, shivering; listening to the wind as it howled through every crevice. And the relentless rain. I expected that any minute I and the cabin and everything in the vicinity might be sucked into a vortex at sea, never to be seen again.

I drew myself into a ball of misery as small as possible … which wasn't very! A five-foot blanket being stretched around a six-foot body played hell with the laws of physics. Actually, I was still freezing all over and scared shitless. I reached for my pill vial, swallowed a Vicodin and waited for the pain in my leg to go away. Maybe if I took enough of them, the hurricane would go away too. I just wanted the storm to be over, to be left alone to rest and warm up a little … and quit hurting.

I drew a mental shield around myself and escaped the effects of the weather by returning to the events at the Tiki Bar the night before:

Thoughts of the conversation that took place after we adjourned to the poker table in the corner, and after I'd confided that the man I'd spotted in the shrubbery that day was about six tables away … things took a strange turn toward the inexplicable.

Hooley and Amos and I ordered more drinks and studied the four men across the crowded room. I had managed to get back into the corner by hiding my lameness behind the bodies of the other two, but my caution would be tossed to the wind if my happy companions didn't soon shut up.

If the objects of our attention weren't aware of us by that time, they were a lot drunker than we were. They would have to be dumb as doorknobs not to know that _something_ was going on with the fools at the table in the corner. I finally slammed the flat of my hand hard on the table to get my companions' attention, and after that things quieted down.

 _*My god … It's not like me to act the self-righteous chaperone. To believe I might even be the voice of reason in this scenario! And we had supposed our suspects were dumb …*_

Packy joined us about eleven o'clock. Above the fading noise of the Tiki Bar and the growing intensity of the wind, we heard the Piper buzz-saw onto the beach, and its engine go silent. By the time Packy joined us, there was already a Mai Tai decorating the fourth place at the table. He sat down and picked up the deck of cards, rifled them with his hands a few times and then dealt. I watched him as the cards flew gracefully from his fingers to each player, and I also watched his clean fingernails and smooth skin, and quickly decided there was more to this grizzled old pilot than met the eye. I also cringed a bit when he met my gaze, raised his eyebrows and looked me up and down with a sly grin. Made me feel that he knew I wasn't exactly what I claimed to be either …

"Okay," he finally said, placing the deck in the center of the table and picking up his hand. "Those four guys at the table across the room … is one of them the one you saw in your underbrush?" He was looking directly at me.

I nodded. "Yeah. The small one. The one with the mole on his face."

"He's called 'Pongo'," Packy said. "I don't know much about him, except that he drives an old panel truck and works as a handyman. The two big ones are brothers. Vasquez. They own a fishing boat. The fourth one I don't know. Never saw him before. Do you want to alert the police and tell 'em what you saw? At least that way they can keep watch on 'em and see if they do anything else suspicious."

We all agreed to his suggestion and Amos got up and went through the rear door of the bar. When he returned, he nodded affirmation. After that we stacked the cards, took pulls on our drinks and waited for the local constabulary to show up.

Twenty minutes later a white SUV with gold shields on the front doors pulled onto the cement patio. It had started to rain by then, and the wind picked up a little more. Two island policemen came through the bar and stopped at our table.

 _*Oh sweet! They park out front and walk back to where they see Packy and Amos. So much for keeping our anonymnity.*_

When the two officers asked for a description of what I had seen, all four Latino gentlemen quickly flew the coop. Why the hell was I not surprised?

It seemed that our pair of deputies were both rookies assigned to night shift, and were somewhat more of an amateur cadre than we had been led to believe. The night was suddenly over … and they had learned exactly nothing. Both cops left after we told them as much as we could … like … keep a lookout for a little dude with a mole on his face. He was probably going to die of cancer one of these days if he didn't get it checked. And then the investigation would have turned into more than nothing.

When we gave up for the evening, all of us were buzzed except Packy, who decided to get his butt back to the lee side of the island and find a hole to crawl into for the night.

When I stood up from the table, my bum leg collapsed beneath me. I had sat too long. I grabbed for my cane and Hooley and Packy practically carried me from the bar to the dune buggy. We were all soaked when they got me there.

It was after one-thirty in the morning and Amos's staff was busily closing things up, lowering the wood awnings and fastening them down tight. The juke box went silent and all the customers had gone. The lights dimmed. Nothing had been settled one way or another, but at least the cops had something to go on. Lightning was splitting the sky and intensifying when the SUV pulled out and rolled down the beach. I caught glimpses of it like it was moving through a strobe light, and then it vanished, looking kind of like a white rabbit … hopping away …

There was more thunder and lightning when Hooley started the dune buggy and we got rolling. "We should hurry back to your cabin, Kyle Calloway. You must rest and I must return to help Amos close the bar. This storm will get much worse before it will get better."

Gusts of wind were already pushing horizontal rain when we worked our way up the front steps of the cabin at two in the morning. Hooley helped me inside and started to close the shutters over the windows. "I can do that," I assured him. "You should go help Amos get things buttoned down. He has a lot to do and he can use all the help he can get. Go! I'm fine."

He looked at me doubtfully, but I shooshed him away with both hands. Finally he shrugged, turned, and was gone back into the stormy night.

I fumbled around with the shutters, but the pain escalated immediately. It was the most I could do to drag my ass to the bathroom to take a looong leak and pull my wet clothes off. I got into my old scrub pants and searched for my cane. I must have left it in the other room. I left my clothes on a pile on the bathroom floor and hobbled drunkenly, shivering, to the bed to crawl beneath the covers.

I rode the thing out the rest of the day. I never did find my damn cane, and I had to get the arm canes out from under the bed. I stayed put while the storm raged on. Took myself to the head once. Nursed a headache of monstrous proportions.

At sundown, with the wind and rain finally abating, I went back to bed and passed out. The hurricane blew itself out sometime after I fell asleep from utter exhaustion.

The sun came up … at least there were cracks of brightness that sent puddles of sunlight here and there across the floor.

I staggered out of bed and leaned into it. My hair had dried flat against my head and I smelled like stale sweat from scrambling around to close off the windows and the door. I was achy all over. My stomach was rumbling, my mouth tasted like the bottom of a garbage can, and my head was pounding. I had really tied on a good one last night.

I hunched, uncomfortable and weary, listening to voices hollering down the beach. I was still shivering from the general dampness that pervaded the cabin. There was no heat in here, and I could feel the cold and the stiffness seeping into my bones. By afternoon the island's normal heat index would return in force, but for the moment I was simply miserable.

My leg throbbed with a cadence of its own and I needed to dig my Vicodin out of my jacket pocket. Both hands gravitated to the scar to calm things down. It eased for a few moments and then returned. I clenched my teeth against the jabbing that penetrated the damaged muscles and pulled up the blanket from the foot of the bed, rolling backwards into it. I let myself topple over until my head hit the pillow, curling into a ball on my left side. It was just too damn much trouble to get my meds, so I rode up and down with the ebb and flow …

I was not even aware of time as it passed.

A familiar dream finally overtook me:

 _*I am on my couch in my apartment at 221B Baker Street. Covered with a familiar old gray blanket. Trying to sleep. My leg is raised onto a bed pillow, but still it hurt._

 _Someone is in the vestibule … a succession of insistent tappings begins on the door behind me … matching the thunder in my leg …_

 _My throat is dry. It takes some grunts and gags before I can get sound to come out of my mouth in order to answer. I am also pissed off at being disturbed._

" _Use your key! I'm not getting up …"_

 _I hear the muted sound of a key being inserted into the lock, and the door opens quietly. "House?"_

 _I force my eyes open and gasp for breath._

" _Wilson? Is that you?"*_

80


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"After the Storm"

IT'S BEEN ABOUT A WEEK SINCE HURRICANE WINDS BLEW THROUGH THIS NECK OF THE WOODS. I DON'T KNOW IF THE WEATHER BUREAU GAVE IT A NAME OR NOT, ALTHOUGH IT CERTAINLY DESERVED ONE. IT DIDN'T JUST BLOW THROUGH THIS SIDE OF THE ISLAND. IT RAISED HELL UP AND DOWN THE LEE SIDE AND BATTERED THE WINDWARD SIDE AS WELL. (WHERE ALL THE FANCY HOTELS ARE).

THUNDER, LIGHTNING, GALE-FORCE WINDS AND RAIN PUMMELED US OFF AND ON FOR A FULL TWELVE STRAIGHT HOURS OR MORE BEFORE IT FINALLY SHOT ITS WAD AND LEFT TO GO PLAY WITH ITSELF OVER OPEN OCEAN. EVERYBODY SIGHED WITH RELIEF WHEN THINGS BEGAN TO QUIET DOWN.

I HOVERED CLOSE TO THE OLD RADIO, LISTENING TO WEATHER REPORTS AND METEOROLOGISTS' ANALYSES … TALKING ABOUT THE PATH OF THE STORM THEY'D NAMED "CHARLIE". APPARENTLY IT HAD PLOUGHED A PATH NORTH AND WEST AND BITTEN CHUNKS OUT OF ST. LUCIA AND DOMINICA AS WELL BEFORE IT DIMINISHED AND FINALLY DIED OVER OPEN WATER.

HERE ON BARBADOS THERE WAS SOME MAJOR STRUCTURAL DAMAGE LOCALLY BECAUSE THE SMALLER CABINS WERE MOSTLY CONSTRUCTED FROM CARDBOARD CARTONS AND BALING WIRE. THIS ONE WAS LUCKIER. IT CAME THROUGH THE GALE JUST FINE, SOME OF IT, I'M SURE, DUE TO THE BIG METAL TANKS AND THE HUGE GENERATOR OUT BACK. IT WOULD HAVE TAKEN AN ATOM BOMB TO DISLODGE THOSE.

ONE OF THE BIG PALMETTO TREES BACK THERE CRASHED DOWN AND JUST MISSED THE CORNER OF THE PORCH. MEN FROM THE NEIGHBORHOOD RALLIED AROUND AND SPENT AN ENTIRE DAY CUTTING THAT BIG SUCKER UP AND HAULING IT AWAY TO USE FOR THEIR CAMPFIRES. IT WAS ONE OF THE FEW TIMES I CAN REMEMBER THAT I REGRETTED NOT BEING ABLE TO HELP. I DID SLIP A C-NOTE TO AMOS THOUGH, AND HE BROUGHT BACK CASES OF COLD BEER, SODAS AND SANDWICHES FROM HIS COOLER. I WARNED HIM THAT THE NAME OF THE DONOR WAS "MISTER ANONYMOUS". HE SHOOK HIS HEAD, SMILED AND AGREED.

HOOLEY WAS SAFE AND SOUND THROUGH THE STORM, AND HIS OTHER CLIENTS AS WELL. HE'D SPENT A DAY AT AMOS'S BAR HELPING TO REPLACE A PART OF THE BUILDING WHERE ANOTHER TREE HAD FALLEN AND TAKEN OFF THE ENTIRE CORNER. AN AWNING HAD ALSO BROKEN OFF AND SMASHED AMOS'S PRIZED 1954 SEEBURG JUKE BOX. THE GLASS FRONT AND DELICATE INSIDE MECHANISMS WERE SMASHED BEYOND REPAIR. HE SAID A BIG COCONUT PALM TRIED TO RUN AWAY FROM HOME AND ONLY MADE IT AS FAR AS THE FRONT OF THE BUILDING. SOME VALUABLE OLD 78/rpm RECORDS ALSO DIED IN THE CRASH. I CRINGED WHEN HE TOLD ME THAT. SOME OF THOSE THINGS ARE PRICELESS AND IRREPLACABLE. A DOZEN-OR-SO GALLONS OF RUM GOT SMASHED TO SMITHEREENS ON THE CEMENT FLOOR. AMOS SAID HE HAD TO LAUGH ABOUT THE WHOLE THING SO HE WOULDN'T CRY. FORTUNATELY HE WAS HEAVILY INSURED.

The crew that cut up the tree at my place and rebuilt Amos's place also prowled around the rest of the neighborhood and generally cleaned up and restored or replaced all the damage done by the hurricane. When I asked, Hooley and Amos both told me that these were the people who had lived on the island all their lives and this was: Just. What. They. Did! They cleaned up the mess with chain saws, hatchets, pickup trucks, hammers, nails, dirty jokes … and sheer muscle power.

Miraculously there were no human casualties … not even a laceration or abrasion. Just lots of property damage and tons of debris. There were palm fronds and half-ripe coconuts littering yards and parking spaces, all blown in from somewhere else. The beach was strewn for miles with broken lawn furniture, tattered awnings, kids' toys, odds and ends of clothing and laundry; even a couple of small cabana tents and plastic garbage cans.

Today, six days later, everything looks pretty much back to normal, and ennui has been fully restored. I still haven't found my cane from the night before the storm, and I think that, like a lot of other missing belongings, it's gone with the wind.

I sit on my front porch and look up and down the beach, sparkling in the sun again and back to being pristine. (I'm talking 'pristine' as in the condition that Mother Nature intends it to be, not like Martha Stewart is out there running a vacuum cleaner and dusting the palm fronds …)

There has been no further word on the whereabouts of the (alleged) drug dealing Latino dudes, one of whom I'd spotted sneaking through the bushes in my yard, and whose trail led directly between the generator and fuel tank. What the hell was the attraction back there? The cops found nothing, Hooley said, and the quartet seemed to have got their asses off the island lickety split. The fishing boat was gone from its moorings. More work to find out where it had got to …

The local constabulary questioned some of the other freelancers who had their own island-hopper planes, wondering if they'd had any swarthy, white-shirted passengers. The answers always came back the same: "No, Mon …"

I admit that my penchant for medical puzzles has been working overtime. Not about drug runners in general, but one nasty little sick dude in particular. I wondered whether the short guy was under any medical treatment for the mole on his face. I doubted it. Even from a distance I saw signs of imminent malignancy, and I don't give a damn who the bastard is, that thing needs to be tended to.

Late in the morning on the day after the storm, I was still in bed in the gloom created by shuttered windows and battened door. I'd thrown off the blanket, but was sore as hell and hadn't done my leg exercises. Hooley, of course, chose that particular time to stop by. He wondered how I'd weathered the storm, he said, and decided to check on me.

He would not let me lay around and 'feel puny', he said. He cajoled and ranted and raved and carried on like a midwife until I finally gave up, sat up and eased my legs off the edge of the mattress. When I had done that, he handed me the arm canes.

"Get up and take a hot shower, Mon!" he demanded. "You smell like a pail of dead fish." He held the damned things at arms' length until I grabbed them and eased to a vertical position. I still had no idea what had become of my cane. Angrily I clumped into the bathroom, barefoot and achy as hell, and billowed the curtain closed behind me. I heard him laughing to himself like he thought I was some stubborn child to be scolded and reminded to wash my hands and do my chores.

In the bathroom, piled neatly, I found fresh underwear, socks, an old tee shirt, cutoffs, and the dirty sneakers I'd worn to Amos's the night before, when the storm blew in. The bathroom itself had been tidied, and my wet, discarded clothing was gone. Damn him … he'd sneaked in while I was still asleep and straightened the place before he woke me.

 _*One of these days …*_

When I came out of the shower fully dressed, he had thrown open all the shutters I'd closed over the windows. Amazing what a little sunlight could do. The floor had been freshly mopped and there was a laundry basket by the door, which I assumed contained my dirty stuff for the past couple days.

And Hooley … cutoffs, tee shirt, red sneakers and yarn hat with bell, stood in front of the stove, whistling along with a song on the radio, happily cooking us breakfast, complete with some heavenly smelling coffee. What the hell was I going to say?

('Thank you', I suppose …)

I was hungry and he was cooking, and somehow I managed to keep my big mouth shut over the insults in my head begging to be let out. Gratefully I plopped myself onto a chair at the table and let the arm canes hang on the chair next to me.

His only words were: "Kyle Calloway, where is your cane? It is not in the cabin."

I glared at him over the rim of the coffee cup he handed me. "I dunno. Couldn't find it."

 _*So much for a quick solution.*_

When the meal was over and the dishes washed and put away, the two of us wandered out to the porch to check the lay of the land. The old rattan chair was pushed into a corner, and its stool was nowhere to be seen. Another gone-with-the-wind thing, we supposed. So I pulled out the chair and sat down in it. I dropped the arm canes on the floor and stretched my legs out in front of me.

We looked around, up and down the beach. Out on the water the restless ocean had already taken care of its own cleanup. The shoreline was pretty much back to the way it had been before the hurricane rearranged things. There was a little extra black seaweed strewn along the beach where the water con-tinuously lapped at the shore, and there were some broken palm fronds here and there, but most of those had already washed away.

There was a small pink sneaker sluicing and yawing between the wavelets lapping at the beach, but other than that, it looked as though the storm had never happened. This phenomenon, I thought, attested well to the fact that Mother Nature was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Human beings, on the other hand, were a different story entirely.

Hooley reached into the pocket of his shirt and extracted two cigars, handed me one and bit off the end of the other one and stuck it in his mouth. "Light?" He asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, thanks."

We sat quietly for a long time, puffing the cigars and enjoying the rhythm of the ocean as the sun slid behind the horizon. There was no calypso music floating on the air tonight, and we missed it. Only a few distant voices rode above the breeze … and the sound of waves gently slapping the packed sand.

"Where were you when the storm ripped through here?" I asked him finally. "I was hoping you had sense enough to hole up somewhere while trees and tents and lawn furniture were flying through the air."

Hooley smiled. "I was at the clinic in Prospect. My supervisor requested that we remain there in case of weather-related injuries. There were six of us assigned for the duration of the storm, but fortunately people remained indoors and we had no walk-in patients or reports of local incidents, other than some property damage. We were all released to regular duties this morning, and you are my fourth client of the day. In a short while I will leave here and continue up the coast to Holetown. I have three more clients to visit … all older than you, and physically challenged as well. I will likely be out all night." He turned to me with a skeptical eye. "Is there anything you need?"

I gave him a sarcastic snort. "Nah, not really. Just go ahead and see to your other people. They need you more than I do."

He frowned. "Say again?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes.

He smiled. "Oh. You were being kind. I almost did not pair the gesture with the man. That is quite fascinating. Do you need medication? I can bring new prescriptions from the pharmacy."

I glared at him again, trying to look insulted, but he wasn't buying it.

"No thanks. I still have some." Actually, I was rather pleased that I'd come across as sympathetic and he had noticed. Now all I had to do was try to make it believable. Someday, maybe even sincere.

The clinics on the island are run very differently from those in the states, I decided. I had not visited them first-hand, but the way he explained it, I supposed they worked quite well for the people in his charge.

"I sure wouldn't mind if you brought some more of these cigars though. If you want."

"I'll see what I can do, Kyle Calloway."

Shortly after that, he dumped our spent cigar butts into the metal container he kept in the closet and climbed into the dune buggy with my basket of wash. I waved as he backed out over the mounds of sand that the storm had piled there. He headed up the beach toward Holetown and the clients he would stop to see on the way. I had never met any of his other patients, of course, but in a strange sort of way I thought of them as kindred spirits.

I gathered the arm canes and pulled myself to my feet. I was tired and achy and had been that way all day. I knew why. During the storm and afterward and reviewing the whole experience in my head, I had not done any leg exercises, and I could tell.

As I clumped inside the cabin and secured the screen door behind me, the outward thrust of my right ankle moved stubbornly toward contracture. I needed to get back to the exercises soon or suffer the consequences.

I sighed and went over to sit down on the bed. All the life seemed to have drained out of me. I felt lonely and worthless and at odds with the world around me. Maybe a year in Barbados hadn't been such a good idea after all …

Since that day, things on this side of the island have returned to normal … whatever the hell that is.

Sometimes I wonder if there is some degree of 'normal' that I might return to also …

Probably not.

85


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"Cops 'n' Robbers"

TODAY I'M GRITTING MY TEETH, DOING LEG EXERCISES AND HATING IT. IT'S HARD, BUT I CAN'T QUIT. I'D MUCH RATHER DISCONTINUE THE STRUGGLE AND THE SWEAT AND THE PAIN. I WOULD LIKE TO STRETCH OUT ON THE BED, TRY TO RELAX AND JUST IMMERSE MYSELF IN THE NEW ORLEANS BLUES THAT ROLLS OUT IN SPIRITED WAVES FROM THE BIG OLD RADIO …

BUT I CAN'T!

PROCRASTINATION HAS BEEN A PROBLEM FOR ME EVER SINCE THE INFARCTION, AND NOBODY KNEW IT EXCEPT ME. THE "ANTICIPATION-OF-PAIN" WAS MORE DAUNTING THAN I HAD EVER IMAGINED, AND I HAD TO FIGHT IT CONSTANTLY.

THERE WAS A TIME WHEN I HAUNTED THE HALLS OF THE HOSPITAL IN NEW JERSEY, MY CALLUSED HAND IN A DEATH GRIP ON THE HANDLE OF THE FLAME CANE, MY LEG SHOOTING SPARKS AND MY SHOULDER ACHING WITH THE AGONY OF TAKING UP THE SLACK. I WAS ALWAYS RUNNING AFTER SOMETHING, HUNTING SOME ELUSIVE CLUE; MY BRAIN STRESSED BY THE INADEQUATE BODY THAT CARRIED IT, AND ALWAYS STRAINING FOR ANSWERS TO ANOTHER MEDICAL MYSTERY.

I WAS OBSESSED WITH PROVING I WAS **NOT** A CRIPPLE; THAT I COULD CARRY MY OWN WEIGHT, AND I COULD STILL NAVIGATE UNDER MY OWN STEAM. I GLOWERED AND GLARED AND DARED ANYONE TO OFFER ASSISTANCE IN ANY WAY. I WAS GREGORY HOUSE AND I WAS **FINE!**

UNTIL I WASN'T.

WHEN I THREW AWAY MY TENURE AT PPTH, I THREW ALL THAT RESOLVE AWAY WITH IT. I LET THE PAIN RULE ME, AND NOW I'M PAYING FOR IT. THAT'S WHY I'M USING TWO CANES INSTEAD OF ONE. THE LOSS OF MY REGULAR CANE WAS A FORTUNATE ACCIDENT … ANOTHER FACT KNOWN ONLY TO ME.

I'M **NOT** AN ADDICT. NEVER WAS. I NEEDED POWERFUL MEDS TO HOLD OFF THE PAIN OF THE MISSING MUSCLE AND TRUNCATED NERVE ENDINGS SO I COULD DO MY JOB. AS I SAID OVER AND OVER AGAIN: "THE DRUGS DON'T MAKE ME HIGH … THEY MAKE ME NEUTRAL." BUT I MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN TALKING TO A BRICK WALL FOR ALL THE GOOD IT DID.

LOOKING BACK AT SOME OF THE BLISTERING INSULTS I'VE THROWN AT MY PATIENTS FOR WHINING ABOUT PAIN, I REALIZE I'M THE WORST OF THE OFFENDERS. WHEN I YELL AT THEM ABOUT 'SUCKING IT UP', I'M REALLY YELLING AT MYSELF FOR ALLOWING MY PHYSICAL PAIN TO RULE ME. BUT IT WAS ALL ABOUT THE DENIAL …

I'VE EXPERIENCED TOO MUCH PAIN FOR TOO LONG, AND I AM WEARY OF IT.

Damn the foot extensions! They'll be the death of me. Sitting in a straight-back chair in my bare feet with a towel folded lengthwise beneath the ball of my right foot is no fun. I have to pull up on the towel with both hands and count to ten so my heel remains on the floor and the ball of my foot lifts at least an inch. My Achilles tendon screams in protest and I bite down on my lip. I grunt with effort, because the absence of a quadriceps means I can't do this normally the way everybody else can do it. My foot splays flat on the floor like a dead fish. I have to do twenty of these things, rest for sixty seconds and then do twenty more. Three sets. When I finish, my leg feels like I've just run the Boston Marathon, and my foot feels like it's been run through with harp strings.

I hold the edge of the table in a death grip to do knee bends because the right leg doesn't flex on its own. I have to be careful I don't damage the most recent wound and tear the newer subcutaneous stitches. The ligaments feel like half-cooked spaghetti and my knee is stuck in low gear. I'm waiting for it to loosen and straighten instead of giving me a Charley horse that cramps it up for another minute while I hold my breath and grit my teeth. Normal deep knee bends are beyond me. I attempt some abbreviated ones on my own, hoping that if I can strengthen whatever muscle strands remain near the empty quad location, maybe I can do at least a few. Contracture and inversion are still a worry. I've been experiencing the tightness that tells me it's advancing.

I have not told Hooley.

The Zenith is playing Dixieland now … like every musician is playing a different song, but they all end up together. It's great for getting the old adrenalin going. It's 3:00 p.m. now, and my calf is like a rock. Not quite a Charley horse, but close. I massage it with both hands: up and down, up and down.

I will _not_ take another Vicodin, goddamn it …

My cane is still missing, and I have given up looking for it. I haven't ventured away from the cabin since it did the disappearing act. I'm feeling the effects of 'cabin fever', but don't really trust myself to leave here. My leg is weak from not enough exercises, or too damn sore because I've done too many. I can't win for losing, and it's pissing me off.

I feel the need to be somewhere that, when I look up, the only thing I see is _sky! Not mosquito netting or naked lumber …_

I'm so sore lately that I have to rely on the fucking arm canes for mobility anyway. I try to force myself to walk like nothing is wrong … wincing and hitching my breath like some soap opera ham … but who am I kidding?

I force myself to do the dishes and put them away. I wipe down the stove, the drain board and the table and put the mustard and ketchup and onions back into the fridge. I ditch one of the arm canes for a while and put away the clean laundry that was sitting by the front door. Hooley takes my laundry to a lady who does it for a living. He finally told me after I nagged him about it.

Anyhow, I mop under the bed and change my sheets … this takes for-fucking- **ever**. I know better than to ask him to help me with it. He says chores make for excellent physical therapy, but he's full of shit. I know he watches me like a hawk and gauges my rate of recovery by how well I'm able to do things for myself. Sometimes my body aches in places where I didn't even know I had places.

I look over the cabin and pronounce it livable.

I flop down into one of the old recliners and lean back … and immediately my brain takes over the rest of me, reengaging and rearranging priorities. I don't want to think about unfinished business in New Jersey. I'm still wandering around in a frozen-in-time scenario. I know I should reimburse Cuddy for the damage I did to her house. I see and understand everything I ignored by acting the asshole and running away from the unresolved mess I created with my anger and jealousy and cowardice. I should apologize to Wilson and ask his forgiveness.

I keep pushing the thoughts away and ignoring them exactly as I used to when I was still at PPTH. It's getting harder and harder to concentrate on a new life when memories of the old one won't go away. I recall times when I could submerge all other concerns and focus on one subject for hours at a time. It happened whenever I had a difficult case. But now there are no more cases except my own, and I know there are no solutions to that one unless I face reality and pay my dues ...

I can't go crawling to Wilson. He is a proud and intelligent man. He must find the way himself and decide whether he wants to be my friend again. I can't force reconciliation, so I try luring him instead with 'Kyle Calloway'. I've already submitted two articles on Nephrology. It's been a few months, and there has been no response. Either he has not seen the articles, or he has seen them and chooses to ignore them.

I remind myself again and again: "Patience!"

I'm restless. Aching, in mind and body.

When the 'pain bug' crawls beneath my skin, I can't sit still for any length of time. Like now. I gather the arm canes, struggle to my feet and head for the front porch. The toes of my right foot are barely touching the floor. Maybe the damn exercises are screwing it up more. Maybe a short walk outside will give me a chance to place a little more weight on it, even if it hurts like hell …

Somebody found the stool, by the way, that belongs to the rattan chair. Whoever it was knew where it came from and brought it back. I'm surprised it's still in one piece.

 _*Thanks, stranger …*_

I sit down wearily at the edge of the porch, both feet on the first step. There is a stiff breeze blowing. The bushes around the cabin scrape the boards along both sides. It sounds like sandpaper doing some vigorous scrubbing. Music drifts out from the radio, filling the cabin and spilling out the door to tickle my senses.

Bert Kaempfert: "The Moon is Making Eyes". Another favorite of my Mom's …

I'm daydreaming … envisioning another storm … coming to blow me away like the stool to the rattan chair … back to New Jersey. Will someone find me there? Will they bring me back to life?

Suddenly I'm sitting up. Listening. Sounds of metal on metal, coming from around the corner where the tanks stand against the back of the cabin. Was there a water carrier out there refilling the tank? The guy with the diesel truck said they alternated every other month. Hardly seemed possible. I had not heard the roar of an engine or the loud hum of a hose unreeling. It's also too late in the day. Those guys operate in the wee small hours, when the sun isn't even up yet.

I stiffen and lean further over the front steps, turning on my own personal RADAR. It's quiet, except, of course, for the sounds of the ocean and the breeze wafting inland. I hear the hum of voices, blowing in this direction from down closer to Amos's place. This cabin is fairly isolated, so what the hell had I heard that made all my neck hairs scramble to attention?

Thirty seconds later there comes another faint clank and a few seconds of metallic scraping that I might have missed entirely, had I not had both ears tuned to red alert. I move down another step and steady the arm canes under me. I ease clumsily to my feet and make the last transition from bottom step to ground.

Whoever or whatever is out back this time, certainly has no business there. I had learned very early on that it is so boring this far up the beach that no kid in his right mind would come up here looking for adventure. This is the last cabin for a mile or so … absolutely nothing worth exploring except beach and more beach.

So, then what?

I think the stiffness of my pose, sort of like an old hunting dog, is more a mixture of curiosity and alarm than anything to do with steadfastness of heart. I stand frozen. The clanking starts again, accompanied by sounds like someone who searches for something and cannot find it. Like the sounds of desperation being muted on purpose.

 _*What the hell?*_

Moving cautiously, I maneuver carefully to the edge of the porch and peer around the bushes toward the area where the tanks and generator are located. I see nothing.

 _*PAUSE*_

The bushes shield me completely from anyone messing around the tanks. I take another step and I'm almost into the open. Still nothing. The clanking and scraping stop abruptly. Coincidentally, so does the beach noise and the breeze. All is quiet except for the distant voices and the slap of waves on the shore.

Now what? Some animal digging around out there?

I step into the open. Nope. Animals don't dig with tools made of metal, and I hear metal scraping …

There's nothing to see. No wild animals, no kids banging around with sticks or baseball bats, and no electrical malfunctions making weird scraping noises at the generator or the tanks. Nothing there gives me any indication of machinery doing anything except what it had been put there to do.

I move forward, still tense and alert, placing the arm canes where they will not become tangled up in trailing vines. The tips must not dig into the ground where they might throw me off balance by sliding over a stone or a chunk of buried debris left over from the storm.

Past the corner of the big generator I close in on the crawlspace between the water and fuel tanks. In my head I have the illusion of plates and saucers crashing out of a cupboard, every step a disaster in the making. In reality, I make no sound at all, even with my limping and shuffling and heavy breathing. I approach the narrow passageway where maintenance men enter to check connections and electrical hookups that keep this unique cabin operational.

Too late, I hear again the scraping of metal that alerted me minutes before and sent me to investigate what was causing it.

I stop in my tracks and turn around slowly to press my back against the front of the water tank. I take a deep breath and bend forward to peer around the corner into the crawl space. In the deep recess of the opening, I see the dark shadow of someone on hands and knees, yanking and pulling at an object that refuses to yield and give up its entrenchment.

Too late I realize also that my own shadow has completely blocked off any source of light for the person doing the digging. He is wearing dirty tan chinos. His head is down and his butt is up in the air. He is yanking for all he's worth. When my shadow blocks his view, he struggles upright against the side of the water tank, which responds with a hollow 'BONG-G-G …' that makes me jump in alarm.

 _*What the hell?*_

My visitor sees me standing there like an eclipse of the sun. He could have stood up, rushed forward and pushed me over with an outstretched finger. But he hesitates a second too long.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing under there?" I'm pissed off now, and annoyed at the intrusion, and using the "Gregory House voice".

Bad idea.

The guy is startled out of his mind. He tries to leap to his feet and whirl to face me, but there is no room to maneuver and I hear the side of his head ricochet again, this time off the side of the fuel tank. The package that had been jammed between his hands slips away and falls back into the hole he had been digging in order to draw it out. I have images of a hard-cover book wrapped tightly in tin foil.

A cold shiver is running down my back, but I step closer, effectively blocking his view as my height fills the entire opening between the tanks. I figure he can't see the damn arm canes, so he might think I'm someone who can present a threat. He can't get out of there quickly, even if he wants to, and I take the opportunity to yell at him again.

"Get the fuck out of there, asshole!" (Stupid thing to say …)

As he straightens, I see a gun come up and level in my direction. _*A GUN?!*_ All my senses freeze with electric spikes of panic, and my brain is telling me to run … run … get out of there!

But I can't. It is physically impossible. I can't move that fast.

He's yelling at me. "You're dead, you nosy son-of-a-beetch!" The gun goes off.

I jerk my head out of the way at the same instant, and the glare of sun hits him directly in the face, spoiling his aim.

This gives me the time I need to duck back around the corner of the tank and out of the line of fire. But now I hear him coming after me, no doubt with the gun aimed and cocked. I drop one of the arm canes in the scramble to recover my balance, but I switch the one remaining from left hand to right, catching myself just in time to keep from biting the dust. I grab at the side of the fuel tank and hang on, suddenly realizing that my mistake just gave my visitor enough time to recover his balance and charge me like an angry water buffalo.

He breaks out into the sunlight and I recognize him as one of the four Latino guys that had been at Amos's place the night before the storm. But this one isn't the one with the mole on his face. This one is bigger and louder and meaner. In his beefy hand he holds a pistol the size of a meat cleaver. How and where he'd concealed it I have no idea, and it looks like even the question is academic.

I am dead where I stand!

I try to jump backward to avoid him as he gathers momentum and charges at me with head down and pistol up. His finger is on the trigger, and I'm trying not to piss my pants. My treacherous leg buckles beneath me and I go down like a ton of bricks on my side in the briars and the weeds and the stones and the sand. How I manage to hold onto the remaining arm cane with my right hand, I'll never know, but I did, and the shaft of it helps me break my fall.

By the time my visitor aims and fires that goddamn cannon, the bullet goes whizzing past between my head and my shoulder, and he's out of there, running and stumbling in the scattered debris, zigging and zagging toward the beach.

At the edge of my so-called back yard, he turns like the asshole he is and fires two more shots in my direction over his shoulder. But I'm helpless on the ground on my side. My leg is useless and on fire, and I'm only half conscious. Both shots sail out over the roof of the cabin and zing into the palmetto trees on the other side.

This pisses me off …

Without even a conscious thought, I tighten my grip on the remaining arm cane and lob the damned thing overhand in the asshole's direction. The pain in my shoulder feels like a wire, snapped red-hot, and I grab at it with my left hand. I know I have screwed something up in there, big time.

I can't move. I roll over like a hollow log with my shoulder screaming and my leg screaming, and just wallow there, the entire side of my face buried in the sand … panting and sobbing. I have never felt so injured or humiliated in my life … or so helpless …

The bastard had gotten away.

The next thing I know, I awaken stretched out in a hospital bed that has to be in the free clinic in Holetown. Everything is sterile and white and squeaky clean. My leg is in traction, my ankle is in a fiberglass splint and my right arm is strapped to my side. I am on Cloud Nine, sort of. There's an IV in my arm, pumping me full of joy juice, and I'm as happy as a piss-ant in a bag of jelly beans.

Beside me, Hooley and Amos and Packy and the two old coots from the Tiki Bar are standing at the foot of my bed staring at me.

I stared back.

 _*Oh, for crying out loud!*_

92


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"Time Passes: The 'Mad" is Going Away"

MY EYES FLUTTER OPEN JUST AS DAWN IS BREAKING. BEYOND MY BEDROOM WINDOW THE SKY IS TURNING PINK. I LIE STILL TO WATCH AND LISTEN. THE WINDOW IS UP AN INCH OR SO FROM LAST NIGHT AND THERE IS JUST ENOUGH BREEZE TO STIR THE STALE AIR AROUND AND LET IN THE SOUNDS OF BIRDSONG AND THE FRAGRANT AROMA OF NATURE TAKING A SHOWER. I HAVE DRIFTED TO CONSCIOUSNESS JUST IN TIME TO ENJOY IT.

THERE COMES THE A SUBTLETY OF MAPLE LEAVES BEING TAPPED GENTLY BY RAINDROPS, AND AN ILLUSION OF NEW BLADES OF GRASS REACHING UP TOWARD THE SKY. EVERY EAGER BIRD IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD IS NOISILY CELEBRATING.

THE EARTH GIVES OFF A BREATH OF FRESHNESS THAT NO MAN-MADE FRAGRANCE CAN MATCH. TURNING ONTO MY SIDE, I LOOK OUT MY SECOND-STORY WINDOW AT THE WAY THE TREES SEEM TO TREMBLE WITH JOY IN THE RAIN AND DOING A FESTIVE DANCE TO THE LOW DRUMBEAT OF THE DROPLETS ON THE LEAVES.

EVEN ON THIS TIRED SIDE OF TOWN WHERE THERE IS LITTLE TO BE SEEN OF BEAUTY, THE TWO TREES OUTSIDE MY APARTMENT BETWEEN SIDEWALK AND STREET, ARE A RARE GIFT. SOMEHOW PASSED BY WHEN BULLDOZERS RAZED THE REST, THEY CELEBRATE THEIR SURVIVAL BY ENTWINING THEIR BOUGHS AND BRUSHING AGAINST ONE ANOTHER LIKE LOVERS CELEBRATING THE NEW DAY. I WATCH CLOSELY, WAKE SLOWLY AND PREPARE TO LAY FEET ON LINOLEUM.

FROM THE TINY KITCHEN ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FLAT I HEAR THE CLOCK TIMER CLICK ON AND THE FIRST SOUNDS OF THE COFFEE-BREWING PROCESS. I COULD LIE HERE AND LANGUISH FOR HOURS, WALKING THROUGH SOME ROUGH SPOTS IN MY MIND … USING A MENTAL RAKE TO SMOOTH SOME OF THEM OUT … BUT IT'S TIME TO GET READY FOR WORK.

IT'S EARLY, BUT THERE ARE THINGS TO DO, PLACES TO GO AND PEOPLE TO SEE. ANOTHER DAY OF BUSINESS AS USUAL.

THE TIME FOR RECONNOITERING IS LATER …

Six-thirty a.m.

I sit at the tiny table in the tiny kitchen, letting my eyes wander over my tiny surroundings. It's not much. Purposely.

I gave up the loft; that huge, pretentious, barn-size collection of opulence and affectation that I purchased for spite, in order to accommodate House and his leg and his precarious state of mind,

and whom I then kicked out to accommodate my first ex-wife … only to have her leave me … again!

I was trying to be the hero; the savior; the Galahad … and succeeded only in becoming a pariah and a demanding demagogue. When I took a long, hard look at myself, I decided I need a massive shot of humility. I sold the loft and just about everything in it … came across town and rented this little hole in the wall. Humility times fifty!

I traded down to the bare minimum to avoid distraction. I'm still not sure that it's working. Sometimes the resentment still tries to wedge its way in. House is gone and Sam is gone, and I'm finding it very hard to face myself and what I've become. I was looking for happiness and got the opposite.

All my personal stuff is in storage and this flat is sparsely furnished. That might be cheating-by-omission, but I need things to be simple for a while. This place has no items from Lord & Taylor, or Gorham or Lay-Z-Boy at my fingertips.

There is a tiny kitchen table pushed against the wall. It has leaves that pull out to make it bigger, but if I do that, I can't open the refrigerator door. Two chairs at the table: one at each end. If there are more than two people in here at once, it feels absurdly crowded.

The fridge is apartment size. I can stand against it and rest my chin on top if I want. I could also bend my knees a little and sit on the table at the same time. I tried it once and found it ridiculous. I keep a tiny microwave atop the fridge. The gas stove has three burners and an oven about the size of the washbowl in the bathroom. I keep a couple of pots in the oven to save space.

Like House used to do, except my pots are clean!

There's a sink; small and rectangular, flanked on the right by a drain board that's attached to a work counter about three feet long. I keep a cutting board on top of it, along with a toaster and a can opener. Cupboards over the fridge and sink are narrow, but offer enough space to store a few canned goods and a couple dishes and bowls. I prepare simple meals and eat a lot of canned soup. There's a big lidded plastic trash can under the sink, because cheap food generates a lot of garbage. I visit a couple of neighborhood greasy spoons when I don't want to eat here. Sometimes I get hungry for something that's not smooshed up in a can or frozen into a brick that turns to mush when you heat it.

Once a week I go across town to meet up with Chris and Eric and Sandy at the 'Boar and Bull'. Once in a while Robert tags along. We all go by first names now, and they call me 'James'. The food is good, and the atmosphere lively, but not insane. We mostly talk shop because we have no family commitments. Sometimes Chris mentions his two little girls who are both over four years old now. Robert often updates us on 'the woman of the week' … and Sandy matches him with 'man of the week'. This practice usually gives us all a good laugh.

The former "House of House" never comes up …

None of us mentions the names of "Cameron" or "Cuddy" either. Some things are best left alone. We all realize a parting of the ways will come between the five of us sooner or later … probably sooner than later. Chris and Robert are already looking for positions elsewhere. Eric is on 'hold' for now, but he will leave also if something promising turns up. And Sandy … well, Sandy is fully qualified to work with any doctor that happens to be there. She's been my right-hand person for almost eight years, and she knows I would like to get the hell out of Dodge if I can. She has encouraged me to that end, but for now I slog along in the same position and keep an eye out … and I sniff around for any news of House … but so far he has remained elusive. I miss him …

After these small excursions I always get in my car and drive directly back to my little hole-in-the-wall. I park as close as possible and return to the big brick apartment building on the corner. I climb the stairs, walk back the dingy hallway and arrive at my front door. Nothing about the place is welcoming. One apartment is just like all the others. I unlock the door, step inside and flip on the light. I lay my key ring on the end table in the corner.

My living room holds a small couch, a chair, and another end table with a 1950s lava lamp on it. There's a 13-inch analog TV on a rickety wire stand. It's not plugged in. I don't know if it works or not, and I'm not even curious. There's no room to set up a PC, so I keep my laptop in its locked case behind the couch.

The flat is good enough for now. I spend most of my time at work anyhow, and I'm not sure if I want to stay in New Jersey or start over again somewhere else. I've found that all I really need is a bed, a shower, a toilet, and a place to crash after work. I have the bonuses of Maple trees out front and an automatic coffee maker that delivers a potent brew to take to work with me every morning.

My imagination longs for new vistas to explore, but my consciousness still slogs through the quagmire of the past. It's been two years since I've seen House.

Last March when I made that run at Hunchback Hill, the excursion did exactly zero to purge my skewered outlook on life. It left me with multiple scratches and gouges to my traumatized muscles and had me limping around for days. Sore knees and blisters on my heels … no thanks … never again.

I did it to purge House and his crazy, destructive lifestyle from my conscious memory, but all it did was bring the persistent feelings of regret even closer. Added to that, I was wearing _his_ damn clothing! I have since chucked them all. His memory is just going to have to fade with time. Like a dim, hoary, painted ad fades from the side of a weathered old barn, leaving only a shadowy image you can barely see anymore …

Someday I will move on. Someday I will do some necessary poking around and look for a small clinic in need of a very good, very thorough oncologist. Until then I'll stay right here where I am and try to leave all the residual confusion behind me. Making a new start by slogging along in the same old rut doesn't make much sense, but so far I seem unable to gather the resources to get things turned around.

Dating and carousing for female company has become unattractive and futile. I've had enough of that for awhile after the dismal failure with Sam the second time around. Friends and colleagues are safer to deal with, and I've found that the years I spent in the unending quest for a perfect relationship ended when Amber died, and anything less is more bother than it's worth. It also costs more than I'm willing to pay … and I don't necessarily mean in money.

Nowadays I spend a lot of time by myself. I'm trying to figure out the person I've become over time, through a bad combination of circumstances and stupid choices. I have to stop trying to define myself by the glitter of the woman hanging off my arm. The ones who are my own age often have voracious appetites … like salivating wolves …

 _*Give me nice things! I want to be seen with you at expensive restaurants and theatres. Lavish me with candy and flowers! Seduce me with beautiful jewelry. Buy me a Ferrari!*_

Who the hell needs that? Especially since I work for a living. I'm quickly becoming one of those middle-aged men whose good looks are fading … but still have money for the spending.

 _*… and all the Wolves KNOW!*_

Sometimes while shaving in the morning, I stare at my reflection. The physical changes tell me that no one will ever call me "Boy Wonder" again. Crows' feet plough furrows at the corners of my eyes and mouth. My hair is becoming dull. The boyish charm has diminished to middle-age paucity. There are grey streaks widening at my temples, and no one tells me they make me look 'distinguished'. My eyes have hollow spaces that did not exist before, and my skin is sallow; almost pasty. I'm galloping toward my fifties … and it shows.

I long for the happy-go-lucky days at McGill. Years before I began the practice of getting married over and over again. Carefree weekends in Montreal. Sailing on the St. Lawrence on Sunday afternoons and navigating that majestic waterway, enjoying the sunlit view of Mount Royal.

College classmates; Joe Ferguson, Ardais Verengi-Degas, Dick Dickenson and me … out girl-watching on the street corners of Ottawa and getting tipsy at their noisy, friendly pubs. It's all ancient history now. Where in the world have the years gone?

I want to go back to a time before the rest of my life began, and I don't want to turn into the scoundrel I've become. But I have no choice, I guess. I have to deal with it.

I sigh and stop the sojourn into daydreams with effort.

I gather my coffee, my keys and my jacket and step out the door into the hallway that leads to the stairsteps. I lock the door behind me and test the doorknob. No elevator here. It's dingy in this narrow passageway, lit only with dim wall sconces. I make my way forward to the stairs descending to the ground floor and the vestibule with the filthy plate-glass-paneled door that opens onto the street.

My car is down the block, too far for me to keep an eye on it from the apartment. This is the industrial side of town, always vulnerable to break-ins and robberies. Newer cars sometimes turn up stripped or missing. I'm heavily insured, but I always breathe a sigh of relief when I see the Volvo still there in the same condition I left it. One of these days my luck will probably run out, and I'll have to file a claim. I know it as well as I know I've been too long procrastinating at the thought of selling it and buying some old clunker a lot less interesting to chop shops and thieves.

But there it sits … still pristine. I fumble with the coffee cup and the keys. I put on my jacket, press the lock release and hit the servo that starts the engine. This sweet car has only 23,000 miles on it, a very desirable prize for the right midnight cowboy. I need to get rid of it until I've worked through all my self-made complications and move into another life.

I open the console and stand the coffee cup in the holder. When it stops sloshing and threatening to spill over, I put the car in gear and pull out onto the street. Traffic is heavy. People are heading for work.

People like me …

I parked in the underground garage, got out, took the last swig of coffee and hit the lock button on the remote. The horn wailed like someone was squeezing a baby pig. Most of the reserved parking spaces were still empty and my footsteps echoed loudly through the cavernous space.

I remembered the countless times I'd stopped by House's apartment to bring him to work when his leg was too painful for him to drive. I liked to be in early, and he would bitch that he had to get up early also if he wanted a ride. Most of those times I didn't give him any slack or any consideration for the fact that it was always painful for him even to get dressed … let alone be ready to go when I arrived out front. The sounds in this big garage at those times echoed loudly in the empty space: both of us in modified syncopation due to his lameness. I didn't give him any slack at those times either, although I knew he struggled to keep up with me. I always considered him my best friend, but sometimes I also thought of him as an inconvenience, and I'm sure he knew it.

The strange thing was that he never complained or asked me to slow down. I was always testing him and he knew that too. What amazed me was the fact that he would rather have cut off his damned leg and hopped after me than admit he was having difficulty, or was in too much pain to keep up the pace.

To this day he's never mentioned a word about the inhuman manner in which I treated him over the years. He has played dirty tricks on me: baited me, sabotaged my office on countless occasions, stole my food, and even poured Sacrete into my toilet.

He has never done anything that would hurt me physically … except stand and watch as I fell down a set of steps in a drunken state.

I've done far worse to him. I originated the scheme that tricked him into giving up Vicodin for a week in exchange for getting out of clinic duty for a month. Cuddy relished seeing him go through withdrawal, but it was me that had to watch while he tortured himself in overwhelming pain, working on a difficult case.

I hurt for him when I saw what he did to his hand to override the leg pain, and it was me who taped him up with adhesive tape so he could 'whack it against the wall' if the leg flared up again. When it was over, I still harassed him for being an addict. Remembering that week, I'm still ashamed of myself for allowing any of it to happen.

I gave him a hard time for not staying in rehab … the night before Christmas when his desperation drove him to steal medication prescribed for a dying patient. I could not understand why he screamed at me to : "FUCK OFF!" I was not always a party to his struggles against the pain because he would not allow me to be. I didn't understand until much later what it cost him to get up in the morning, get himself to work and struggle to make it through the day …

Would I have cut him some slack even if I had "got it" then? I turn it over and over in my head, and ultimately? I just don't know.

God, how I wish he were here so I can tell him … without actually telling him … how sorry I am.

My anger with the person he was … has melted away and left me lonely and regretful and so ashamed of myself I don't know what to do. I can't tell him "I apologize …" if he is not around to hear me say the words …

I took the elevator to the fourth floor and walked back the hallway toward my office, passing the Diagnostics suite on the way. It is dark. Eric and Robert aren't in yet, and there's no sign of Chris or any of the latest batch of newbies.

It's raining again, but I hardly notice. My thoughts keep returning to a man I may never see again. I must find him and try to make amends.

Sandy pokes her head around the corner and smiles. "Good morning, Dr. Wilson," she says. Her flawless 'work formality' is back.

I nod and keep walking …

98


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

"Missing Out on the Action"

"WHERE AM I? AND WHO ARE YOU? SHOULD I KNOW YOU?"

THE TALL DUDE TOWERING OVER MY BED HAD A HUGE GRIN PLASTERED ON HIS FACE. HE WAS FAMILIAR AS ALL HELL. MY CHART WAS IN HIS HANDS, AND HE REGARDED ME WITH ONE OF THOSE HELLISHLY AMUSED LOOKS RESERVED EXCLUSIVELY FOR THE MENTALLY INCOMPETENT. "EASY DOES IT, MY FRIEND. YOU NEED TO LIE STILL. YOU'RE IN THE CLINIC IN HOLETOWN, DR. HOUSE, AND YOU'RE A LITTLE BATTERED UP. I'M HERE TO HELP."

"DON'T CALL ME THAT! I'M NOT HIM ANYMORE. WHERE DO I KNOW YOU FROM?"

 _*WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY HEAD? WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER? IT'S NOT LIKE ME TO FORGET THIS KIND OF STUFF …*_

I DEFINITELY KNEW HIM FROM SOMEWHERE. HE REMINDED ME A LITTLE OF HOOLEY, IF HOOLEY HAD MORE HAIR. THIS GUY'S SKIN WAS LIGHTER AND HE HAD VERY WHITE TEETH AND GOLD FLECKS IN HIS EYES AND HEAVY EYEBROWS AND CURLY BLACK HAIR. HE KEPT SMILING AT ME WITH A LOOK OF SMUG SATISFACTION, AND I WAS CLOSE TO BEING PISSED OFF. HE OBVIOUSLY KNEW MY REAL NAME AND THAT MADE ME UNEASY. HAD HOOLEY SPILLED THE BEANS? I COULDN'T BELIEVE THAT …

I STRUGGLED TO RAISE MYSELF A LITTLE HIGHER IN THE BED TO GET A CLOSER LOOK, BUT THE MYSTERY DUDE LAID A HAND GENTLY ON MY UNDAMAGED SHOULDER AND PRESSED ME BACK WITH LITTLE EFFORT. "YOU MUST RELAX … KYLE … SORRY I CALLED YOU THE OTHER NAME, BUT THAT'S HOW YOU INTRODUCED YOURSELF WHEN WE FIRST MET."

"WE KNOW EACH OTHER? HOW?"

"SIX MONTHS AGO IN SAN JUAN. REMEMBER NOW? I'M ALFONZO RODRIGUEZ, AND I HAVE A SON NAMED …"

 _*HOLY SHIT!*_

"MOSCHA …"

IT ALL CAME BACK IN A FLOOD OF MEMORY. I KNEW I WAS GAPING UP AT HIM, BUT I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF. WAS IT REALLY THAT LONG AGO?

"FONZE?"

His grin told me he was enjoying the hell out of this. "That's right, yes. You really impressed that boy, you know. He never stops talking about you. I don't know what you said to him on that plane, but I have to believe it was a good thing."

"Where is he? Is he here?" I didn't usually get excited about kids, but this one was …

Fonze laughed. "He's around here somewhere … probably with Packy and Amos and some of their friends … **your** friends too. The two of us came in with Packy last evening, and he told us what's been going on around here. When he told us about you and what you did, Moss knew who you were right away."

"'What I did'? What _did_ I do? Could somebody _please_ fill me in?"

A voice behind me told me Hooley was there, guarding my back as usual. "You are a big hero, Kyle Calloway. You broke the case of the drug runners and the robberies that were taking place on the island. I called Fonzie to tell him the men who threatened him a few years ago were now in custody. The police spoke with him about what happened when he would not transport their drugs."

"I don't get it," I said. "What the hell did I have to do with it?"

"You, old man," Fonze said with a grin, "threw that damn crutch and beaned the bastard on the head; knocked him right into the middle of next week. There are now four idiots in jail in San Juan, thanks to you. The police dug up a fortune in heroin from beneath your fuel tank."

"What? I did that? I thought all I did was fall on my face in the sand and bury my head in a pile of rocks. I threw the crutch so I wouldn't fall on it and knock my eye out."

Fonzie Rodriguez pressed the control at the foot of my bed and raised it slowly until I was eye-level with the two of them. It hurt less than I thought it would.

Taking turns, they told me what happened after I knocked myself out cold behind the cabin.

"Leon and Louie said they heard gunshots, so we got in the dune buggy and came looking for you. We didn't see you or Munoz laying on the sand at first. When we went into the cabin, the radio was on, but you were nowhere around. We found you both in the side yard. Munoz was out like a light with a pistol in the sand beside him, and your crutch a couple feet away. The gun had four shots fired from it, and he had a perfect imprint of your crutch tip on the side of his head. He was just coming around, and by that time Amos and Leon and Louie came running up. They held the gun on Munoz while Hooley and I tended to you."

"Yeah, Mon," Hooley continued, "your face is cut up some. You hurt your ankle, but it's not serious. You strained a muscle in your shoulder and I don't know how, but you twisted your knee, and it's on the bad side. You were fortunate you did not reopen your wound. But you stopped the bad guy with the ferrule of your crutch to the side of his head."

"You nailed him!" Fonz exclaimed. "Both the old men saw it hit."

It hurt like hell to laugh, but I found myself laughing anyway. It was nice to be told that I had done something right, even if I didn't know I'd done it.

They described the arrival of the ambulance, and the crowd of neighbors who assisted in stabilizing me and lifting me onto the stretcher. They told of the gawky little wagon train of vehicles that followed along as I was transported to the Holetown Clinic, about five miles away.

In the ER I was patched up and plunked into a hospital bed. I was injected with enough pain killers to keep me quiet for the rest of the night and into the morning.

So I languished there, blissfully unaware of everything while the local radio and TV stations pronounced Dr. Kyle Calloway a local hero …

… and I wondered briefly if the news would eventually make its way to the USA and to the ears of James Evan Wilson. Maybe. Maybe not. Probably not …

I looked from one of them to the other in disbelief. "This is the craziest damn thing I ever heard of … and what are the odds that you and Moscha would end up here, and you guys and Hooley already knew each other?"

They smiled again, glancing at one another. "You gonna tell him?" Fonze asked. "Or should I?"

"You," said Hooley.

"We are brothers-in-law. My wife and Hooley were brother and sister, you see. Until yesterday neither of us knew we had a common bond with you. Moss and I rode in the ambulance with you when they brought you to the clinic, and we learned that you are renting the 'Magic Cabin'. After that, we all put two-and-two together … and here we are. Now it's all over Barbados that you conked one of the drug bosses on the head … and they're all in jail."

I had nothing to say for a moment. At last: "Well, dammit, I'd like to see one of you jokers take out an armed drug dealer … and do it while you're unconscious." I stuck my finger in my mouth and then into the air. Then I blew on it. "Actually, I thought he got away."

I watched them remove my leg from traction, my ankle from the brace, and release my arm from the straps that held it to my body. I was still wearing an oxygen canola and a pulse ox, both of which I pulled off myself. Fortunately there was little pain, so I assumed I'd been stabbed in the butt once again with something potent. "Would somebody please help me out of this bed? I would really like to get the hell out of here," I said crossly.

I saw them exchange wary looks, followed by sarcastic grins. There was not a snowball's chance in hell that I would be able to walk, not yet, even with crutches or arm canes.

"Wheelchair or nothing," I heard Hooley grumble. "Your shoulder isn't supported and neither is your foot. You can't walk, Mon …"

 _*No shit!*_

I nodded once in disgust.

They helped me from the bed to a lightweight wheelchair, and I rolled to the bath to relieve myself. My shoulder protested stridently, and I looked up to find that they had followed me. I couldn't even take a leak in private.

They propped me up while I whizzed; both men studying something damned interesting on the ceiling.

Back beside the bed, I was assisted in changing to sweats and a pair of soft-sole moccasins.

At that moment Amos walked into the room holding something behind his back. Wordlessly he held it out to me and I stared. Hard. I had not seen my cane for weeks. Not since before the storm.

 _*NOW they find it!*_

I laughed at the irony. "Where was it?" I asked as I took it from him and examined the damaged wood.

"It was behind the bushes at the edge of the porch. The wind must have blown it under there. As you can see, it's pretty well beat up. One of the cops found it when he was searching the yard."

I nodded. "Thanks …"

"You're welcome," he said. "You looked pretty banged up. Fortunately most of it was dirt and sand and grit. All of your neighbors were pretty worried …"

I was puzzled. Again. "Those people don't know me … except for the nights I made an ass of myself at your place. Why would they care what happened up at the cabin? They took a big chance going up there. Some of them could have been shot."

"Yeah … well, you know how crowds like to follow the excitement. They found out you provided drinks and sandwiches when they cleaned up the downed tree from your yard. They know you've bought them drinks at the bar. They liked that you never bragged about it."

"You weren't supposed to tell."

"Anhhh … you know how it is. Your fan club came back this morning to see how you are."

"Really?"

"Uh huh. You want to see them?"

"Oh God no! Tell 'em to go-the-hell home. I'm fine."

Fonz laughed. "Oh good … I'll send 'em in."

Before I could yell at him, he was out the door.

Not only had I _not_ known I had a 'fan club', I now suspected they would all want to hear the war stories.

My 'fan club' consisted of Amos and two of the women on his staff; one of whom turned out to be his wife. Leon and Louie Freemantle, the two old guys from the bar, and their wives; late of St. Louis and now residents of Barbados; and Packy, the island-jumper pilot. I looked up at them and they, down at me. They seemed pleased to see me in one piece. All smiles and roses.

I sighed, knowing they expected me to say something.

I searched through my bag of smart-ass remarks, but it turned up sadly lacking. I really didn't want to insult these people. They actually thought I had offered myself up in an unselfish act. No one had told them different.

Suddenly it was all academic. A small body hurled itself from behind the adults as Moscha dropped to his knees and slid the rest of the way to my side on the polished floor. My mouth hung open and my grin was the widest I could remember. I knew it spoke volumes about my state of mind. I didn't care.

"Hi Kyle Calloway. I'm really glad you're all right!" (Somebody had filled the kid in. He did not call me 'Greg'.)

"Moscha …"

I was actually glad to see him. His black, curly, fish-line hair was a little longer, and he was even looking a bit taller. Maybe because I was sitting in a wheelchair and he was now standing up. His delight at seeing me in one piece was obvious. He was all smiles, and it made me feel weird. And pleased. He was the one person who never thought I was a jerk. And he was the little guy who did not mind being little. Like he told me, I shouldn't fight being crippled. It was what it was, and I could handle it.

Grinning like the cat that got the canary, he leaned across to me and paused for a moment. Then he bent down and put his arms carefully around my neck for a hug.

A year ago I might have turned beet red and stalked away.

I hesitated a second and then hugged him back with the only arm that still worked.

The room filled with appreciative laughter.

"So when can we get him out of here?" Moscha demanded. "This place is for sick people."

I almost wanted to kiss him …

103


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Finding a Happy Medium"

THE REMAINDER OF THE TIME MOSCHA AND ALFONZO WERE ON THE ISLAND, MOSCHA HUNG OUT WITH ME AT THE CABIN. HIS DAD AND HOOLEY DROPPED HIM OFF IN THE MORNINGS AND I WOULD MAKE BREAKFAST FOR US. FONZE AND HOOLEY WOULD THEN DRIVE OFF TO TEND TO CLIENTS OF HOOLEY'S, AND WORK AFTERNOONS AT THE HOLETOWN CLINIC. I WANTED TO ACCOMPANY THEM SO BADLY I COULD TASTE IT. I COULD HAVE TAUGHT MOSCHA SOME THINGS ABOUT MEDICINE THAT HE'D NEVER LEARN ANYWHERE ELSE, BUT I COULD NOT DO IT FROM A WHEELCHAIR, SO I NEVER MENTIONED IT.

SOMETIMES MY PAIN RAMPED UP AND IT WAS MOSCHA WHO DID THE COOKING, WHICH USUALLY CONSISTED OF HONEY NUT CHEERIOS AND MILK, OR SCRAMBLED EGGS AND TOAST. I DIDN'T TEASE HIM ABOUT HIS LACK OF CULINARY SKILLS, BUT ATE WHAT WAS PLACED BEFORE ME. SOMETIMES HE ADDED CHEESE AND TOBASCO TO THE EGGS AND EVEN GOT IT RIGHT.

DURING THOSE WEEKS I ROLLED AROUND IN THE WHEELCHAIR BECAUSE I COULD NOT BEAR WEIGHT ON MY FOOT, AND BECAUSE MY SCREWED-UP SHOULDER SQUEAKED LIKE A RUSTY GATE EVERY TIME I MOVED MY ARM. IN THE BATH IT WAS DIFFICULT TO GET AROUND EXCEPT WHEN I FINALLY FIGURED OUT A WAY TO LEAN ON THINGS AND GRASP THINGS WITH MY LEFT HAND AND PULL MYSELF ALONG THE SHOWER ROD.

I COULDN'T DO LEG EXERCISES BECAUSE OF THE ADDED INSTABILITY OF MY ANKLE, SO THE ADVANCE OF THE CONTRACTURE BEGAN AGAIN. THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO ABOUT IT EXCEPT WAIT FOR THE INJURIES TO HEAL. TO SAY I WAS FRUSTRATED WAS PUTTING IT MILDLY.

THE THING THAT BOTHERED ME MOST ABOUT THE WHOLE BUSINESS, I THINK, WAS THE CONTINUOUS PRAISE I RECEIVED FROM MY NEIGHBORS WHO BEGAN TO STOP BY TO TELL ME WHAT A HERO I WAS, AND HOW GRATEFUL THEY WERE. I FELT LOUSY TAKING THE CREDIT FOR THAT, BUT WHEN I TRIED TO TELL THEM IT WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A LUCKY COINCIDENCE … THEY SAID I WAS JUST BEING MODEST.

 _*WHO? ME?"_

Fortunately, Moss was an easy kid to be around. He took up the slack when he saw me feeling sorry for myself. He demanded nothing of me and he was always there if I needed him for something. When I cooked, he would happily do the cleanup. When he cooked, he did the cleanup anyway, and rubbed it my face that he did the same thing for his grandfather sometimes. I gave him the 'Gregory House' face, but he just laughed at me until I laughed back. We never argued, just teased the hell out of one another.

We played that old radio until it seemed the roof would fly off beneath the thunder of the sound vibrations. Fonz and Hooley came back one evening to find Moss pushing me in the wheelchair, circling and circling the room. We were caterwauling full-volume to: "I've Been Working on the Railroad". Neither of us had done a lick of cleanup and the cabin looked like lightning struck it. As it turned out, I'd been cramping up all day and Moss was trying to distract me with old tunes that everybody knows, and careening me around and around as fast as he could. We might both have capsized and broken our fool necks. But we didn't. We were laughing too hard.

There was one time when he offered to work on my foot in the same manner he'd used on the plane. I didn't refuse, and I'm sure the dexterity of his small, strong hands did more for the healing process than anything I might have done on my own. It made my foot and ankle ache like hell for a while afterward, but the ache was temporary and it almost made up for the lack of leg exercises.

When I asked about his growth status, he told me he had added about a half-inch to his height since we'd first met. He said he'd also talked his dad into backing off on the idea of having him treated by a specialist after he mentioned the conversation the two of us had on the way to San Juan. Fonze was, of course, surprised to learn that his son didn't mind being the little guy. The subject had simply never come up between them before, so it turned out that Fonze had actually deferred to his son's wishes.

Moss and I even high-fived on it.

Man! What I wouldn't have given to have had a dad like that … one who actually listened to what I said once in a while.

On rainy afternoons we would go out on the porch; me in the wheelchair in shorts and tee shirt and bare feet. Moscha in jeans and sneakers and a baggy sweatshirt. He would sit in the old rattan chair with his knees pulled up inside the shirt, his arms around his knees, looking like a turtle sitting there. We drank hot tea laced with mint. Plain. No sugar. Moss's idea.

I thought: *ugh!* … until I actually tasted the stuff. Now I even make it for myself once in a while. He asked me a lot of medical questions, which I was happy to answer and even expand upon. He enjoyed the gross, bloody stuff of thoracic surgery and funny stories of clinic patients' stupidity.

He laughed his head off when I told him about a delirious patient who led a cadre of highly paid doctors, including myself, running all over the hospital looking for him. When we found the guy, he'd been hiding under his bed all along with the top sheet pulled down like a curtain, almost in plain sight. I had forgotten the extent to which boys Moss' age loved the gross stuff. Zombies … walking dead … roadkill … bloody murder … yucky crap. Actually, I could relate. I was sometimes seduced by that dreck as well.

Since I was wearing cutoffs, and my scar and the healing wound were both clearly visible, I let him indulge his curiosity: look at it, study it, touch it. My easy consent alarmed me, and I wondered why I would even allow this. He was surprisingly gentle and extremely careful not to hurt me.

Containing my tension, I decided to tell him the short version of what happened to me. A few times during the telling, I saw his eyes mist up. I have no explanation why I gave this child permission to lay his hand on the one area of my anatomy that I always guarded so jealously, and with the utmost privacy. I wondered if this was what Kyle Calloway was going to be like as I became better acquainted with him. Or was something finally opening up inside the shuttered world of Gregory House? (I hoped, both.) My body was jumpy and unyielding, but still I allowed him to explore as he pondered the life-changing experience I was struggling to tell him about.

Moscha was intense and compassionate, and when he fully comprehended the reason I had become a cripple, he placed his hand over as much of the scar as he could reach, and I watched him, not speaking. Not daring to; not wanting to impart any kind of influence on his thinking.

"When I become a doctor," he said, finally, "I will be able to repair terrible things like this ..."

I nodded shortly. "I believe you."

When I was finished, we sat silent for a long time, lost in our own thoughts and sipping at our tea, now quite cold.

After that, we talked about cars and baseball and NFL and basketball and Monster Trucks … and girls.

Well … **of course** girls! We're **guys!**

I asked him if he had a girlfriend …

I asked him that same question three days in a row. Evidently the topic of 'sexy-girlie-stuff': (his own words), was a subject with which adults must use restraint when seeking such information from a teen-age boy. For the first two times I mentioned it, he hid his face behind crossed arms and clammed up until I laughingly changed the subject.

But the third time, a ripple of exasperated giggles finally indicated a breakthrough. I apologized for my bluntness, but then urged him again. "Well … **do you?** "

I laughed out loud when he finally sighed and said: "You aren't gonna let this alone, are you?"

When I told him "no", he said: "I have _two_ girlfriends, but they don't know about each other. Don't tell my dad. He'd have kittens. Satisfied?" And that was that. I decided if the subject came up again, it had to be his idea. I put my fingers to my lips and zipped my mouth shut. He grinned.

As time went on, I regaled him with war stories and overblown tales of growing up a "Marine Corps Brat", having to pull up stakes again and again when my jet-pilot father got transferred from one base to another all over the world.

His one observation of my vagabond life told me he had intelligence and foresight far beyond his tender years. "Didn't it make you sad when you had to leave your friends over and over again? It happened to me once … when we moved to New York City …"

He was right. It had happened to me so many times that I turned into a loner who no longer even tried to make friends. I was forever the outsider. I kept to myself and learned to play guitar and piano and took up studying medical books.

He told me that was the saddest thing he'd ever heard, and he wished he could hear me play sometime.

Moscha understood. He hated that he and his dad had had to hide in New York under an alias in order to protect themselves from persecution by drug dealers and thugs. He also understood how I must feel about the same type of awkward circumstances in my own situation, since I'd introduced myself on the plane as 'Greg'.

It hadn't taken his father long to figure out who 'Greg' was … for real …

"I hope you trust us to keep your secret," Moscha said. "Dad and I know what it's like, hiding in plain sight and never knowing when the wrong person might see us and recognize us. It still scares me sometimes. Does it do that to you?"

Actually, I hadn't thought of it in those terms before. I was just trying to hold off the inevitable, and I told him so. "I think you and your dad are in a lot less danger now that those idiots are in jail where they belong."

"Yeah," he said, "but there's still the trial." He watched me closely, waiting for a reaction. I paused a moment.

"To answer your question … now that I think about it … I guess I'm a little scared. But unlike you or your dad, I did some bad things back in the states; things I regret. I hurt people I cared for, all because I was angry with them … and one of these days I'll have to atone for it. Right now, I'm hiding here because I haven't figured out how to be honest and tell them how sorry I am. I don't want them to think I'm begging for sympathy because of my leg … or that I'm playing the 'cripple card' the way I used to …"

I took a deep breath and grew suddenly quiet as I realized that I had just spoken a truth that I had not visited for a long time.

I felt a small, warm hand on my arm, and when I looked across, Moscha's large eyes were boring into my own. "Kyle Calloway … you can tell those people what you just told me. Straight out. You should also tell Gregory House … because I think he'd like to know …

"I like you, Greg … a lot. You're a good guy. So is Kyle, and I like hanging around with both of you and talking about whatever comes up. It's fun. I hope when I grow up, I can take the stuff I learned from my dad and mix it up with the stuff I learned from you. It would be cool to do that someday."

 _*What the hell do I say after he says that?*_

Discretion being the better part of valor, I said nothing. I felt my ears growing hot.

And I heard him smiling.

Two weeks later, Moss announced quietly that he and his dad had to leave. They would fly back to Jamaica and stop to visit at his grandparents' place. After that, Dr. Alfonzo Rodriguez must return to work at Sloan-Kettering, and life would return to whatever-the-hell 'normal' was. Like mine, their futures were shrouded in mystery. But they were done hiding.

By that time, I'd finally left the wheelchair and took to the poor, dilapidated arm canes once again. I was wobbly and weak in my shoulder, and a little dizzy. Moscha did not miss the opportunity to laugh at me and accuse me of looking like a drunken gorilla. (Like he'd ever seen a drunken gorilla, but I got the picture …)

Our parting, two days later, was solemn, because I knew that very soon I must head off in the same direction. None of us were sure if we'd ever meet again.

I nodded to Hooley and shook hands with Fonze with a grin on my face. I admired the man, and I felt a bit envious of the warm relationship he had with his son. I also admired the son for the obvious respect he held for his father. The two, I thought, were a prime example of a kid and a Dad who'd got it right.

It was difficult to see them go. The back of my throat was dry and achy as we all gathered on the cabin's porch saying our awkward goodbyes. I reminded myself that a year ago, I would have avoided this type of communal huddle like the plague. I wasn't sure how to take my leave of Moscha. He stood next to this father in a stiff and formal pose. Finally he nodded, posture guarded, fists clenched tight.

"Is that all I get? Really?" I tilted my head and frowned at him, playing the Cripple Card beautifully.

That did it. He broke away from Fonzie's side and hurried across to me as his dad and his uncle stood and watched with knowing expressions. Moss wrapped both arms around my back, hugging so hard it whooshed my breath. Gone was the gentleness left over from my long stint in the wheelchair. This kid meant business. I hugged back, and we lingered just long enough so it wouldn't become embarrassing before we broke away and he returned to his dad's side.

We heard the Piper zoom in from overhead, splash down and taxi to the beach. And the sound of the engine winding down. But Packy did not shut it off, and we knew the time had come …

He sauntered over and walked up to the porch. He looked me over quickly and nodded. He shook hands with Hooley and Fonzie and Moscha.

Fonze hesitated briefly, and then reached for his brother-in-law. They hugged the way guys do: a quick touch of arms-on-shoulders and then back off. Hooley's hug with Moss lasted a little longer. Hooley pointed to his colorful hat and winked at his nephew. "The hat survives!"

"I can see that," Moss responded with a grin. "Probably saved Kyle some embarrassment …"

 _*Smart kid!*_

I remembered back to the first days I'd spent on the island: "My nephew has knitted this wonderful hat for me …"

 _*HAH!*_

Fonzie reminded Hooley and me that he would call when the drug trial came up. He then turned to me and said: "I don't know if your testimony will be needed or not, but if so, I'll let you know in plenty of time so you can make arrangements to be there."

 _*Well hell! Who wouldn't want to hear the story of that heroic, well-aimed crutch … ?*_

I nodded. "Understood." But I knew I wouldn't be around when that time came … if it ever did.

I watched as they walked down the beach, Hooley and Fonzie and Packy toting their luggage like they were being exiled to Elba …

Moscha looked back once and waved.

"Smooth sailin'!" I shouted, for wont of anything better.

"Keep the shiny side up!" He yelled back.

They walked to the waiting plane … out of my life … probably forever.

The Piper hit the sky like the eagle she was, and disappeared toward the horizon.

It was time to break out the Vodka and the cigars.

Probably more than one …

109


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"The Gift"

A WEEK PASSED SLOWLY WHILE I SPENT TIME WONDERING HOW FONZE AND MOSCHA WERE MAKING OUT BACK IN THE CITY. BIG APPLE. GOTHAM. METROPOLIS. NOT THAT IT REALLY MATTERED. THEY HAD WOVEN IN AND OUT OF MY LIFE THE SAME AS SO MANY OTHERS BEFORE THEM. EXCEPT THAT THESE TWO WERE POTENTIAL FRIENDS WHO GOT AWAY. IN DUE TIME THEIR FACES WOULD BLUR AND LIFE WOULD GO ON. IN THE MEANTIME I WAS STILL A BIT BUMMED. THE RODRIGUEZ'S HAD BEEN FUNNY AND NON-JUDGMENTAL AND A HOOT TO SPEND TIME WITH. I MISSED THEM … ESPECIALLY THAT DAMN KID.

IT HAD BEEN DIFFICULT GETTING DRESSED TODAY. MY LEG WENT INTO SPASM AFTER SPASM AND THE LIGAMENTS WERE TIGHT. NOTHING NEW. GINGERLY, I PULLED ON A PAIR OF CUTOFFS AND AN OLD TEE SHIRT. I ATE THE LAST OF THE HONEY NUT CHEERIOS, DRANK A CUP OF MOSCHA'S MINT TEA AND PREPARED TO GET BACK TO DOING MY EXERCISES.

ANTICIPATION-OF-PAIN WAS ON ME AGAIN AND I COULD NOT SEEM TO GET PAST IT. I DREADED THE EXERCISES BECAUSE I WAS HURTING ALREADY, AND I KNEW WHAT THEY WOULD LEAVE BEHIND IN THEIR WAKE.

THE ARM CANES WERE PRETTY MUCH DONE FOR. THE ONE I HAD LOBBED AT THE FLEEING DRUG DEALER WAS BENT TO THE POINT OF CREASING THE ALUMINUM AND BECOMING A PIECE OF JUNK. ONCE BENT, THE SUPPORT RODS WERE NEXT TO USELESS. I HAD DUMPED THEM IN THE CLOSET AND REVERTED SOLELY TO MY OLD CANE, WHICH WASN'T IN MUCH BETTER SHAPE.

I had the radio turned low: listening to a station in New Orleans that was playing the blues. Muddy Watters, Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday and a few others. The music helped take the edge off the pain.

I was cleaning up the kitchen after lunch. I had struggled through two sets of exercises, and the lingering ache was maddening. I couldn't sit still and I tried working it off by keeping busy. I wiped down the sink and drain board, and turned around to do the table.

My leg buckled suddenly … I was always caught off guard by that … and I staggered sideways to grab onto the nearest stable object to keep me upright. I hugged the edge of the sink and leaned over it, gasping. The cane was not within easy reach, so I leaned there until I stopped seeing stars. I rested my sock foot atop the other one to let it ease off.

Outside in the spot where Hooley usually parked the dune buggy, I heard the sound of a much larger engine. I looked up, momentarily pulled away from my world of hurt by mortal curiosity. All I could see was the passenger side of a big SUV, silver grey. It lugged to a stop and the engine clicked through the gears and shut down. I saw the driver's door swing open on the other side as a silver-haired man in tailored jeans and white sport shirt got out. Shortly, the rear door swung open. The man reached in and gathered up a long, thin corrugated cardboard box. Both doors closed with a solid thump.

I hobbled crazily across to the bed and backed against it. My cane was hanging off the head end and I grabbed it before craning my neck to see who in hell would be coming here in the middle of the day. It certainly wasn't Hooley or any of the men from the Tiki Bar.

An errant, panicky thought ran through my mind that it was a local cop, come to drag my homesick ass away for past misdeeds. I snorted to myself at the irony of imagining a sniper's rifle emerging from the box. Footsteps mounting the porch steps had me frowning, straining to see who it was.

"Sit down, son," said a soft voice that I recognized immediately. "It's only me … the Greek bearing gifts," followed by a gravelly chuckle.

I pushed back onto the bed and stared. "Packy? Is that you? What the hell are you doing, and why are you dressed in that getup? I didn't know you. What's in the box?"

He smiled and walked over to place it on the table. "Well now I'll tell ya … whenever you decide to stop sputtering … I brought you something that Hooley and Fonze and I all think you need, but there ain't nowhere on Barbados where they sell them in this color. Not yet, anyway. So I brought these back with me from San Juan. There was one pair left." He sounded almost apologetic.

If it hadn't been for the unmistakable growl of his gruff voice, I would never have known him. Gone were the threadbare shorts, the sleeveless old rag of a tee shirt, and the ancient rope sandals. In their place he wore a pair of tight-fittin' jeans … like in the song … a tailored white shirt cut in cowboy style, and spiffy black western boots with bulldoggin' heels. His hair was combed and groomed, not sticking up like a cat had been licking at it. His facial hair was neatly trimmed and his cheeks looked titty pink from scrubbing. He even smelled good. Like Irish Spring. He looked like the 'Mike Franks' character from N.C.I.S.

I sat back on the bed like a kid who has just sighted Santa Claus in the men's toilet with his pants down. "You remind me of some eccentric millionaire," I said. "Checking on the peons who run his plantations. So, what's in the box?"

His sharp blue eyes cornered me with a look that made me wonder if I hadn't come dangerously close to some mysterious truth. "Not a bad guess," he said. "As a matter fact, I _am_ your landlord, believe it or not, but that's got nothin' to do with why I'm here."

A cold wash of shock slithered down my spine in anticipation of something revolutionary in the offing. He _owned_ this place? _HE_ was the dude responsible for rigging up those two Feinbergers in my back yard? Had he also discovered fire and invented the wheel? "Wanna fill me in, Packy, if that's really your name? Or is it a pseudonym for Murdoch or Balenciaga or Iacocca? A little more information would be nice."

He smiled and removed the lid from the box, revealing nothing except a wad of packing paper. "My name," he finally admitted, "shouldn't even be spoken in the same breath as those three esteemed gentlemen. I'm well set financially, but my so-called 'wealth' is all inherited. Every penny. My grandpa worked for Henry Ford in Detroit, and they became friends. Gramps was a laborer, but he had a flair for design. Mr. Ford saw some of his drawings and liked them and used them. They turned out to be very popular, as in Model A and Zephyr. Gramps sold the patents to Ford and earned himself a nice bundle in commissions. He invested most of it. When Gramps died, my dad inherited everything. Pop worked at Ford Motor Works too, and made a good living. He played the stock market and parlayed the damn inheritance into a small fortune.

"When he died, I, being another only child, scooped up the whole she-bang at the ripe old age of twenty. My full name is Alan Rance Packard, Jr., but you'll never read it in any society pages or lists of 'who's who'. I don't run with them people.

"Don't you never tell nobody, Calloway! Or I'll start calling you 'Gregory House' out loud. 'What's in the box?' you ask." He stopped talking and reached for the packing paper in the long cardboard box.

I was still processing what he'd told me, but I heard a metallic rattle, and knew at once what the box contained. He threw the packing paper onto the floor and lifted two bright red lengths of folded-in-half, steel-rolled alloy onto the table with a clank, followed by a small pamphlet and instructions for assembly. I had heard about these things, but had never held them in my hands or used them.

Looked like that was about to change.

I watched as Packy unfolded the fancy crutches, checking to see that the under-arm pads, hand grips and swivel ferrules were there, plus all the hardware. He picked up a small tool (included) and tightened every nut, every screw; checked each bolt and lock washer to be sure they were all in place. He then walked over to where I was sitting and handed them to me. "The height should be just about right for you. Wanna try 'em out?" He might as well have been talking to some stranger about the weather.

When I took them from his hands, I found out that they were marvelously lightweight and easy to maneuver. And of course, incredibly strong.

They were called 'Millennials'. Ergonomic rolled-steel crutches like the ones used by athletes with leg injuries, and Sean Payton in particular, the coach of the New Orleans Saints, when he'd got rolled over beneath a rough sideline play.

"Wow! These are …"

Words of anything resembling gratitude remained locked tightly in my throat. My lack of social graces precluded any articulation of actual words that might express appreciation. Truthfully, I didn't want the damned things …

Nothing is more demoralizing than the discovery that even casual acquaintances have begun to notice that you need to use permanent walk-aids. I had no excuses left; no more denials. Using these indestructible crutches reminded me of some old race horse sentenced to pulling a meat wagon 'til the day he died. Bred to run, but reduced to the humiliation of infirmity. I had to use these in order to be able to walk without killing myself. I had finally turned the corner and become a 'forever-cripple'.

Packy stood looking at me in silence. He was probably thinking what I was thinking, and hating himself for being the messenger. He had changed out his whole persona and made this purchase in private. I would have bet any amount that he had even chosen the red ones on purpose. He delivered them in their shipping box so no other eyes would see … at least not right away.

So how do you say 'thank you' for such discretion? All I was capable of doing was sit there looking at him wordlessly and ghosting my fingers over the smooth, gleaming surfaces.

He smiled and shrugged. "You're welcome, son. I hope you heal real quick so you won't need 'em long." We both knew he was lying through his teeth. Packy had always known, from the day he flew me in, that that kind of healing wasn't going to happen for me.

"Thank you," I finally said out loud. But it was only one decibel above a whisper.

He didn't answer. Didn't want to perpetuate the lie.

He stood up and gathered the cardboard box and the packing paper, preparing to leave. "You should read the instructions for those things. They ought to be checked once in a while to make sure everything is tightened down."

I was still staring at him, questions piling up in my mind. Nothing to do with this impromptu kindness for me. Why was he working so hard at being an old-time island hopper when he could be living a life of leisure?

"Wait!" I said.

He turned and looked at me with knit brows.

"Are you in a hurry? I have a few questions …"

He threw back his head and laughed, and it broke the tension. He'd been uncertain how I would accept his gift, and I didn't want to insult him by acting like an ass.

"Well now … I aint in a hurry to be anyplace special, but if I stick around to shoot the shit, it'll cost ya. I'm taking a big chance that somebody down at Amos's will see me and want to know who the hell I stole the SUV from … and why I took a bath this early in the week …"

I rolled my eyes and pulled a face at him, grinning. "I have bottles of Vodka and Rum that haven't been opened yet, and a bottle of Gin that's about half full. Glasses are over the sink. Hooley brought me Ginger Ale and Dr. Pepper and 7Up. There's lemons and limes and ice in the fridge. You can help yourself. But while you're making whatever you're making … make two. Bring 'em out to the porch. 'Course you'll have to drag a chair along. There's only one out there, unless you want to use the wheelchair. Personally, I've had more than enough of that thing. In the meantime, I'm just gonna test these big boys out … make sure I don't go on my ass with 'em."

I pulled myself to my feet and settled the crutches beneath my arms. The height adjustment was exactly right. How the hell had he known? "I'll get us a couple of cigars out of the humidor in the closet. Those I can carry. You okay with all that?"

He nodded, watching me find my balance and make for the other end of the room. I knew able-bodied people seldom thought about the limitations that crutches can impose. No free hands to carry anything. No easy way to open a door. Going up and down steps is not only a hassle, but time-consuming.

I felt his eyes on my back as I placed full weight on the crutches and went into the closet. I didn't need to lean forward and place extra strain on my back. The underarm supports were curved and padded to fit the exact musculature of my physicality, and the hand grips didn't force my hands to maintain an awkward angle. I could stand at full height and still feel relaxed. When I took a step, I found that I was positioning the shafts ahead of me, not dragging them behind. I could also bring both legs forward at one time, lessening the strain of trying to keep the right foot off the floor. Wow!

I had taken long strides across the room. _Long strides!_ My right leg did none of the work, but simply followed beside the left like it was glued fast. Anyone watching might believe that I suffered little more than a sprained ankle. It was that easy. I was smiling at the difference in comfort level and didn't even realize it. Nothing hurt other than the leg, and even that was lessened. Maybe I had grumbled too soon about having to use this type of walk-aid.

I lifted four cigars out of the humidor and put them into a small plastic bag from the shelf. I hung the bag from one of the hand grips and was good to go. I walked out to the porch and plunked down on the rattan chair. Hefted my leg onto the stool. Right behind me, Packy dragged one of the old recliners after him and set it down next to me. He turned and went back inside.

I heard the clink of ice cubes into glasses, and at that point I stopped listening. I reached down and removed a cigar; lit it up.

The glasses Packy brought with him were filled almost to the brim with a golden ice-cubie-lemon-limey- something-or-other that pretty much made my mouth water. "What's in those things?"

"Here," he said. "Check it out."

I did. The first sip was strong, like first sips always are, but I was sure I could figure it out. "Pretty damn good. What all's in 'em besides gin, ginger ale and lime?"

Packy threw back his head and laughed. "You got it right … gin, ginger ale, and a squirt of lime juice to cut the gin. Amos calls 'em 'Gin-Gins'. So tell me … what are those questions you wanted to ask?" He lit up a cigar and leaned back to puff on it. On his face was a smug look that told me he knew exactly what I'd say.

I glared at him; pointed to the fire-engine red crutches leaning across my lap. "Why did you do this?"

He shrugged. "Because you need 'em, son. You're hard as hell on the regular ones, and it's only a matter of time 'til you can't use that old wood cane anymore. It already looks like it came through the Civil War, and it's playin' hell with your spinal cord.

"The arm canes you dumped in the closet look like you were trying to knock Abe Lincoln off Mt. Rushmore with 'em. You lost the cane once. You'll probably lose it again. Fonz says your leg is in contracture, and he explained to me what that is. It didn't sound so good to me. I know somewhere down the line you'll have to let them amputate your leg. You know it too, so I got you something better before you kill yourself clanking around and falling over your own feet …"

I listened to what he was telling me, bristling a little at hearing the truth. He wasn't saying anything I didn't already know. It was the elephant in the room that Hooley had once mentioned … nowhere to hide from the reality. "I've known for years, Packy. It's just that you're the first person to level with me about it. You know that river in Egypt?"

"Yeah. De Nile. You're welcome. I cruised that river myself a few times …

"I need to change the subject."

His eyebrows came together. He knew that when I changed the subject, it would _really_ be changed.

"To what?"

"Like … why do you fly people around in that rattletrap plane when you don't have to? That thing has seen better days. Lots of them. Also … where is it? You're cleaned up like a playboy, driving a fancy car I never saw before. You're living a lie just like me. How come?"

He rubbed his chin and studied my face like I was a fly in amber. He took a sip of his drink and a pull on the cigar. "First of all," he finally said," that old plane only _looks_ like a rattletrap. It's that way on purpose. Customers pay good money to ride in it, and everything mechanical is on spec and it's maintained like a race car. I know, because I do most of the work myself. Don't let my clean hands fool you.

"The car is a 1999 Escalade. It's one of the originals and it has only 30,000 miles on it. I bought it because it was cool. It's carried a lot of heavy shit around the island for me."

"Like what? Like two old Cities Service storage tanks? Or a Pennsylvania Railroad heavy duty generator?"

Packy's eyes narrowed. "Nah … the SUV is too light for the Jennies and too narrow for the tanks. We use a K-Whopper cab and flatbed for that. Been known to tinker some things together from time to time. You strike me as pretty damn smart for bein' a doctor …"

I laughed. "I keep my eyes open. You plan on spiffing up any other 'Magic Cabins' besides this one?"

"Yeah, eventually. That kind of hardware is pretty hard to find anymore. We're talking to a couple of power companies that've gone solar, but the negotiations are still in limbo. We lined up some tanks from Exxon and one from Gulf. Haven't seen 'em yet, so not sure if they're any good. It's a lot of work rigging those things up so they're safe. Yours took us over a year."

"Well hell, Packy … it stood up under the Big Blow. Not bad for jury rigging. So what about the old plane? How'd you get here from San Juan today? How'd the caddy get here?"

"You thought I had just the one plane, didn't ya? The Piper is across the island at the airport. I flew in on one of the other ones."

"Other ones … ?"

"Yup. I have a DC-3 and a Cessna Citation. I'm using the Douglas today. The Citation uses too much fuel for short-range flying, so I only use it for longer trips. The Escalade is housed with the Douglas, and it fits into the cargo hold just fine with enough space left over for a Grayhound bus or two. I keep the Piper in San Juan mostly, and use it to ferry tourists back and forth. That's why I keep slips both here and on Puerto Rico. Saves time and hassle."

"Seriously?"

"Sure. When I'm on business or in a hurry, I use the Douglas or the Citation. When I wanna have fun, I bring the Piper and park 'er on the beach."

"What business are you really in?"

"Real Estate. Hooley and Amos and I own four cabins on this side of the island, and two on the east side. I also have a hotel over there that I call 'The Ponderoosta' because the restaurant's specialty is chicken cuisine. I have a house and a lady friend and a real estate office in San Juan. There are only two or three people over here who know about any of that. You're probably the fourth. Does that answer your questions?"

I swallowed, a little convulsively. "'Ponderoosta'? That's fuckin' funny. But why do you keep everything a secret?"

Packy laughed: a laugh that was laced with memories of lessons learned the hard way. "Y'know, the more people who find out a guy has money, the more 'friends' he accumulates. Then some of the 'new' friends find things for you to invest your money in. They take your check and disappear … laughing all the way to the bank … or Las Vegas or Monte Carlo … you know how it is. You never hear from 'em again.

"I'm not some hard-hearted bastard, Kyle, but I fell for a sob story once, then found out it was a scam. I called the bank and stopped payment. He had the nerve to turn around and sue me, and when that didn't work, he came to my place with a gun to try to kill me.

"We fought, fell on the floor. The gun went off and he's lying dead beneath me. That was in Michigan forty years ago. Now I keep everything on the down-low, and I decide how to use the money. It has to be somebody I like …"

"Like me, huh? That's why you bought me crutches?"

He snorted, looking at me in a manner that told me he knew I was putting him on. "Yeah. I like you. You got a dirty deal, but you don't whine … and you got balls the size of Rhode Island."

"That's because you never _heard_ me when I whine …"

He ignored me. Instead: "You push and push and push until you almost fall over. Then you straighten up and push come more. There's a certain amount of chutzpah in that."

"You should have known me two years ago."

"Doesn't matter," he insisted. "I know you now."

"Having a guy 'off' himself right underneath you … that sucks. Sorry. Want another drink? Here's my glass."

"Thought you'd never ask …"

"Why the hell not … thanks for the crutches. They're … appropriate."

"Thanks. Hope they work for you. Be right back. You okay?"

"I'm fine."

It was going to be a long, loud night of bullshit in Paradise …

117


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

"The Dynasty - First Clue"

EARLY MONDAY MORNING I WALKED DOWN THE STREET TO MY CAR. THERE HAD BEEN SOME SORT OF TO-DO AT ONE OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD CHURCHES YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, AND WHEN I GOT HOME FROM DINNER, I HAD TO PARK FURTHER AWAY FROM MY APARTMENT THAN I USUALLY DO. SOMETIME BETWEEN THEN AND THIS MORNING, THE VOLVO HAD BEEN 'KEYED'. ON THE DRIVER'S SIDE A LONG, DEEP SCRATCH GOUGED A CREASE AND SCORED THE PAINT ALL THE WAY FROM THE BACK DOOR TO THE FRONT OF THE FRONT ONE. IT HAD OBVIOUSLY BEEN DONE ON PURPOSE.

I WAS BEYOND ANGRY. A HOT WAVE OF RAGE RACED DOWN MY SPINE AND I FOUND IT HARD TO BREATHE. I INSERTED MY FINGER INTO THE GOUGE AND CALCULATED THAT EVEN IF THE DOORS DIDN'T HAVE TO BE REPLACED, THE COST OF SMOOTHING OUT THE CREASE WOULD PROBABLY ADD UP TO A COUPLE THOUSAND DOLLARS OR MORE.

 _THINKING …_

DAMN! I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN RID OF THE CAR WHEN I FIRST BEGAN TO CONTEMPLATE WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN TO IT ON THESE STREETS. OR SOLD IT OUTRIGHT AND BOUGHT A LOW-PRICED OLDER MODEL TO LAST ME UNTIL I MADE UP MY MIND WHAT I WAS GOING TO DO AND WHERE I WAS GOING TO LIVE. WITHIN TWO MINUTES I FELT A MIGRAINE COMING ON, AND I KNEW THE STRESS WOULD RENDER ME USELESS IF I CONTINUED ON TO WORK. I GOT IN THE CAR AND SAT STILL WITH MY HEAD PROPPED ONTO THE STEERING WHEEL. RIGHT THUMB AND FOREFINGER PRESSING ON EITHER SIDE OF MY NOSE DID NOTHING TO EASE THE TENSION.

 _THINKING …_

WISHING BODILY HARM TO THE IDIOT WHO HAD DONE THIS, I DUG OUT MY CELL PHONE AND CALLED ERIC FOREMAN AT THE HOSPITAL. I BEGGED OFF WORK FOR THE DAY, CITING A HEADACHE OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. WHAT COULD HE SAY? HE GRANTED MY REQUEST AND WE RANG OFF.

ONE OTHER CALL TO MAKE: THIS WAS A PERFECT EXAMPLE OF LOCKING THE BARN DOOR AFTER THE HORSE HAS BEEN STOLEN. THE SUN WAS COMING UP AND MY HEAD POUNDED WITH EVERY GRADATION OF ITS BRILLIANT RAYS. THE PHONE RANG FIVE TIMES BEFORE SOMEONE PICKED UP. "CRANE DODGE-CHRYSLER … THIS IS MARGIE … MAY I HELP YOU?"

"THIS IS JAMES WILSON. MAY I SPEAK TO VINCE PLEASE?"

"ONE MOMENT …" THE LINE CLICKED OVER LOUDLY AND I HELD THE PHONE AWAY FROM MY EAR.

"HELLO, MR. WILSON? MR. CRANE HASN'T COME IN YET, BUT IF YOU WISH, I CAN HAVE HIM CALL YOU AS SOON AS HE ARRIVES."

Anger spiked for a moment, but I held it tightly in check. It wasn't her fault I had called so damned early. After a moment I left her with my number and asked that she relay the message.

That taken care of, I rang off and continued to sit behind the wheel letting my random angry thoughts roam at will. My head was killing me.

It was full daylight when the phone shrilled, startling me out of a half-doze.

"Jimmy!" It was the eager, scratchy voice I remembered from years ago when he and House and Billy Travis and I ran around together, raising hell and living our lives with a vengeance. Then the infarction took over House's entire existence, and things fell apart.

"How the hell are you, man? I haven't seen you guys in forever. Have you heard anything from Greg?"

"It's a long story, Vince. Have you got time for me to tell you? It appears that House has crawled into a rabbit hole and pulled it over himself."

There was a pause while my headache ramped up a notch.

"Damn, Jimmy … come on over to my office, why don'cha? There's something over here that I think you might be interested in …"

"Okay, Vince. Give me an hour. I have to call my insurance agent. Somebody gouged my car doors yesterday, and creased the hell out of the entire driver's side."

"Damn! That's too bad, Jimmy. When you finish up, bring it on over. I'll be here and we'll take a look. Just come on in … you know where everything is … it's still pretty much the same …."

When I walked into the showroom of Vince's place, I found that it certainly hadn't changed much over the years. A little brighter, a little more state-of-the-art. The cars were, of course, newer. Glitzier. Some of them even spectacular.

Vince Crane stood in the doorway of his office, smoking one of his smelly cigars. He hadn't changed much either. The red hair had a few more strands of white in it, and his middle-age paunch poked out a little further. The steel-rimmed glasses and the cockeyed grin were still the same. His familiar friendly face seemed to stoke back my headache a bit, and I walked across the floor with hand stretched out. We clasped hands and hung on a little longer than propriety dictated.

Vince, always free with the compliments (comes with being a car dealer, I guess,) looked me over and said: "Damn! Are you taking 'Little Orphan Annie' pills, or what? You don't look any older than the last time I saw you."

I smiled, closed my eyes and shook my head.

We walked into his office and I saw his assistant, the voice I'd heard on the phone, probably. She was a big-boned attractive brunette in her late forties, early fifties. She smiled and nodded and I did the same. Vince introduced us: "Margie, this is Dr. James Wilson, a very old friend. Jimmy, this is my right-hand-man, Margie Franklin. I couldn't run this place without her." He doused his cigar in a big ashtray on his desk.

Margie looked at me appraisingly. "You're the one Vince talks about in connection with Dr. House and Billy Travis." It was a statement, not a question, but her eyes were alight with curiosity.

I allowed her one of my best smiles and said: "Guilty. I'm pleased to meet you, Margie." Nothing more.

"Likewise, Dr. Wilson," she replied and turned back to her desk.

Vince walked into the showroom and I followed. He stopped and leaned an elbow against the fender of a beautiful new Ram 1500 and turned to face me. "What'd you find out about the damage to your car?"

"It's covered under comprehensive. My choice who does the work. Can your guys repair it?"

"Yeah, sure … anytime you want to bring it in."

"It's parked out front, Vince. You seem a bit jumpy. What's up?"

"You'll see in a minute. Gimmie your keys and I'll have Joe bring it around back."

I handed him the keys and stood there puzzled as he talked to his shop man. I knew he was stalling, but did not ask why. Two minutes later I saw the Volvo appear at the shop's overhead door as it rumbled upward. Joe pulled the car slowly inside and shut off the engine. He told us: "I can take the doors off and retool 'em, or we can replace 'em and repaint. Up to you, Doc."

"Whatever you decide, Joe. It's your decision, since you're doing the work. Works for me either way."

"Okay. Me'n' the boys'll check it out. Call back in about a week."

I turned back to Vince. "That was easy. I'll just endorse the check to you when it comes …"

Vince nodded. "That'll work."

"One more order of business," I said, delaying whatever was in his craw. "I didn't take a loner car. I'm going to sell the Volvo … trade it in … whatever. I moved into a postage-stamp-sized apartment near the river. Over there every decent car is fair game. That's what happened, I think. I need something that nobody wants to bother with. Do you have anything that's small, poison to street cowboys and in fairly decent shape?"

"Sure, Jimmy … anything you need … but why the hell would you move down there?"

"I needed someplace to be alone to get back in touch with myself.

"My girlfriend was killed in an accident, and House and I had one hell of a falling-out. He drove his car into the side of Cuddy's place out of spite because she broke up with him. They had this 'fling' that went to hell, and she ordered him out of her life. You know how House is. The crash was his revenge. Then he did a 'now-you-see-me-now-you-don't' disappearing act. I have no idea where he is. Haven't seen him for almost a year.

"Cuddy resigned and left the area too, so I don't know where she is either. The rest of us are looking for new jobs, and the mouse-trap apartment I downsized to is just a stepping stone to my next job when the right opportunity comes along." I shrugged. "That's it in a nutshell."

"I had no idea. That's incredible!" Vince paused, looking a little guilty. "But I may have part of the answer for you. I'd have told you long ago if I'd known. The car-crashing-the-house thing was in the news for a day or so and then disappeared. I never connected it to Greg. Never thought about it at all. Never connected his smashed car with the incident either. Now it makes sense, even to me. Come back here. I want to show you something …"

He led me into the body shop again where two men already had the driver's door off the Volvo. We walked to the back end where a mid-size car of dubious pedigree stood beneath a dusty plastic tarp.

Carefully he gathered the tarp and lifted it off the car. The vehicle that emerged was as familiar to me as though it had been my own. It was the old Dodge that Gregory House drove through the side of his boss's home. Except that this one looked brand new, right off the showroom floor.

Speechless, I stared. Instinctively I looked at the edge of the driver's backrest. There was the barely detectable patch in the middle that had been laminated over the spot where a loose screw on one of House's crutches had torn the fabric shortly after his infarction. "Migod, Vince! This is …"

Vince laughed; a sound that was filled with irony. "It sure is. He called me … a year ago or longer … I forget the date. He told me I'd find his car in the Princeton Police impound lot. He asked me to send my boys with a rollback to pick it up, bring it back to the shop and repair it; he'd already called the cops and told them I'd be there for it. Then he said he was getting the hell out of Dodge for awhile … until his leg healed … his exact words. After I saw the car, I thought he'd been hurt again in an accident."

"A couple days later I got a certified check for five grand. So we went over there. I had to sign for the damned thing so we could drag it out of there. We brought it back on a dolly and repaired it … to the tune of over six thousand bucks. It took every penny of his check and then some to make the thing right. We had to straighten the frame. It took a new differential, both universals. Oil pan, radiator, bumper and grille, hoses and clamps, front axle, wheels, tires, windshield and dashboard, plus all the electrical … and I could go on.

"The whole damn car isn't worth half the price of the repairs we did. That Shitpot still owes me more than a grand, including the time we spent tracking down the parts. The cosmetic work and new paint job are extras I didn't even count, including the body chrome, mostly because he's my friend. Now, here it sits … one gigantic damn lawn ornament … taking up space in my shop."

Beside him, I was still staring, trying to contain a combination of belly laughter at his half-disgusted litany, and my own tears of relief that House was probably okay … wherever-the-hell he ran away to after the mess he made of his life … and ours.

I walked across and laid my hand on the drivers' door, hiding my physical reactions and looking at the old car's new interior. The blue seats had been cleaned and shampooed … far cleaner than the last time I had ridden in it … the day House ordered me out and damn near killed me when he careened up her driveway.

Then I saw the newly installed hand controls. I gulped. House had to have ordered them. I wondered if they might be the same ones he'd used after the tragedy first befell his leg. Not only could he not walk then, but neither could he drive. Vince had found hand controls in a catalogue for automotive aids for the disabled. He had installed them in the Dynasty so House would have them when he was discharged from the hospital. None of us ever talked about them, but we were all aware of the impact they made when House first saw them and grudgingly used them.

Vince was watching me when he lifted the tarp and replaced it over the car's shining body. As if reading my mind, he said: "Yeah … they're the same ones. After Greg decided he could drive again without the hand controls, I took 'em off and had the boys rig the gas pedal so he could use it with either foot. I stored the controls in the parts room … just in case he might need them again. I hate like hell that I turned out to be right."

I covered quickly. "This car didn't even look this good when it was new."

Vince half-smiled. "Yeah … I know. I hope he comes back to get it someday. The bastard owes me money …"

Finally the conversation wore itself out.

"Wanna go out back and look at the collection of junkers?"

I nodded, and we walked out the front door and around the side of the building.

A line of older and not-so-old used cars stood in a lineup against the fence by the property line.

"The Chrysler in front is only a couple of years old, but the damn thing uses oil. Ford Taurus … torn interior. Headliner's coming down. The '06 Impala has transmission problems. The kid that owned it thought it was a race car. Not sure it's worth fixing. The '87 Sundance is in great condition, but it's only a four-banger and has over 250G's on it. Not sure how you'd feel about that."

We proceeded down the line until the end, Vince pointing out the flaws of each one. And there sat an ancient Volkswagen Beetle that looked like brand new. It stood a little apart from the others, almost as though embarrassed to be seen with them.

Vince laughed. "This one will fool you. She was a graduation gift to a young lady from her parents. The kid graduated suma-cum laude from law school, passed the bar, and the first job she landed, she traded the VW for a Chrysler 200. Grateful child, huh?

"This one's got a new motor … changed the tranny from stick to automatic, and had her painted and all spiffied up. Tip-top shape, but nobody wants to take a chance because of the transmission change. What the hell can I say?"

He began to walk away, but I stopped him. The little car had caught my eye; never mind the custom job that made it a recluse. I felt the same way sometimes. The baby-poop green color was offputting, but she had no rust, and the tires looked new. "Tell me more about this one, Vince. What year?" ( _Why_ were we referring to the car as 'she'?)

Vince made a face. "Are you serious? She's a '67 in appearance, but about forty years newer in everything that makes her go. You interested? If you want her, she's yours for $1500."

I did not hesitate. "Sold." (Was I nuts?)

We grinned in mutual appreciation, and turned to go back inside. The paperwork was finished in fifteen minutes and Margie giggled with understanding. "I wondered what sort of person would end up with that car." She winked, and I blushed.

We said a few more words about the whereabouts and physical status of Gregory House … but neither of us was willing to commit to further speculation.

I told Vince that when the Volvo was ready, to go ahead and put it on the lot for sale. I would split the price he got for it, excluding the insurance check. Should cover the amount House still owed on the Dynasty. What the hell …?

Vince attached the plates to my new car, and in a moment of whimsy, I immediately dubbed her: "Vanna: VW … Vanna White".

When I started the motor, the Beetle eagerly jumped to life.

I waved to Vince as I pulled out of the lot and chug-chugged away …

MY APOLOGIES FOR NOT ANSWERING SOME OF YOUR REVIEWS. My computer has been trashing them. Trying to correct the problem … Bets;)

123


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

"Getting the Hell Out of Dodge"

I'M ALONE AGAIN.

ALONE: A STATE IN WHICH I EXISTED FOR FIFTEEN YEARS AND CALLED IT NORMAL. WHEN I WAS AT WORK, PRACTING MY PROFESSION, I WAS STILL ALONE WITHIN MY OWN MIND. THE PEOPLE AROUND ME WERE MERE DISTRACTIONS, LIKE BACKGROUND MUSIC THAT KEPT MY MENTAL ACUITY ON KEY AND IN TIME.

LISA CUDDY HAD DISTRACTED ME WITH HER SEXUALITY AND FEMININE ALLURE, AND FOR AWHILE I WAS DRAWN IN, THINKING SHE FOUND THIS OLD CRIPPLE SOMEHOW ATTRACTIVE. WHAT SHE REALLY WANTED WAS TO OBSERVE ME, REGULATE MY DRUG CONSUMPTION AND TAKE ON A POSITION OF CONTROL. HER REASONING WAS PURELY ECONOMIC, AND LOVE COULD NOT EXIST UNDER THOSE CONDITIONS.

I REGRET WALKING AWAY FROM WILSON. HE WAS A PAIN IN MY ASS, BUT HE MEANT WELL. I HOPE THAT SOMEDAY WE CAN BE FRIENDS AGAIN. I MISS HIM EVERY DAY …

I'm in the bed under the mosquito netting, but on top of the covers. I'm also fully dressed except for my shoe, which Packy must have removed before he left. He is long gone. There are clean plates and glasses over on the drain board and a couple of empty booze and soda bottles sitting in the middle of the table. He obviously did some big cleanup work. The cardboard box and packing are gone and the maintenance tool and instruction sheet are on the table also, held down by the gin bottle. The old recliner is squatting inside the door. It's almost like a dream that Packy was ever here at all.

I awoke to the sound of rain on the roof and a sensation of dampness around me that permeates the entire cabin. I'm on my back, both legs stretched out, and I'm wondering where the pain is. I'm so seldom without it. Rainy days usually play hell with my thigh, but I am spineless and comfortable. I'm afraid to move for fear of turning the wrong way and starting it up.

I must visit the head soon, for I've had enough alcohol in the past twenty four hours to extinguish the fire at the center of the Earth. Across the room the old Zenith is playing easy listening stuff that my mom and dad would relish, although it doesn't do much for me.

My bladder punches me low in the gut and says: "Beep, beep!" I know I'd better listen, because it's ready to turn on the water works, and this bed wouldn't like that much. I shift my legs minimally and slide them to the edge of the mattress. Still I am pain free. I maneuver both feet off the edge and let them slip to the floor. I shift the netting aside and sit up. My thigh awakens, but there's still no actual pain. I prop my hands on the edge of the bed and wait. There's a slow cadence in the fucked-up foot, followed by an echo in my knee. Then my thigh comes to full attention. The grace period is over and the familiar awareness of pain resumes; not strident yet, but there.

At the foot of the bed within easy reach are the red crutches and my left shoe.

 _*Bless you, Packy!*_

I push the shoe onto the floor and slide my healthy foot into it. I grasp the crutches and heft myself into them. My shoulder says: "Ouch, dammit", and my bladder says: "Move your ass or you're gonna get sprayed!" So I moved.

I undressed and stood under the beat of the shower as hot as I could stand it. When I finally shut it down and stumbled from under the needle-like spray, I felt almost as limp as I'd felt when I woke up a while ago. I smelled like Irish Spring, which is a pretty decent smell, since everybody in this neck of the woods seems to use it. I dried off and propped my right hip against the edge of the sink to mow down the newest crop of underbrush that lurked in the mirror.

As I stared at my reflection, I noticed that a gallon or so of booze sure was good fertilizer for whiskers. Further examination of my narrow face told me that my weathered "lived-in" look, not surprisingly, was beginning to resemble a bush that had been hacked at by an old broad with a chain saw.

I did have those eyes though … the bright blue ones that had been passed down for generations and finally made their way to me. They had not dimmed. They were luminous as ever; the one feature I could still cultivate and command, even if the rest of my treacherous body could not respond in kind.

 _*Stop it, House! Self-pity stinks!*_

I attacked the beard with scissors and straight razor and soon sculpted a shorter version of Packy's look: short beard, shorter mustache and smooth face. I let my hair alone, except for a straight trim across the back. It was getting grayer and grayer and thinner and thinner … and I needed to keep as much of it as I possibly could.

Later, I sat on the toilet to take a good long look at my leg. The most recent wound was still healing slowly, but it wasn't really getting any better. The new growth of scar tissue covered the truth the way a wig covered a bald head; you knew the bald head was still under there. The size of the scar had nearly doubled since the meatball surgery in my bathtub. It was longer, wider, deeper. It was too soon to have turned into the fibrous mass like the one before it. I knew that even a simple shock to the area would leave it reopened and probably bloody. I worried my fingers around the edge where scar met healthy skin. It was tender. Small patches of hair were appearing again, and I was repelled by the ugliness. It was offputting … and it was my own fault. I hurried and got dressed the rest of the way. Cutoffs and tee shirt. The usual. My stomach was rumbling, but it wasn't because I was hungry. Quickly I brushed my teeth and limped back into the main room.

My foot wasn't responding well anymore to efforts at reversing the inversion. The truth was sinking in further, leaving me saddened. The truth had sunk in before, actually, but I'd been denying it too long. Packy and Hooley and Fonzie Rodriguez had seen the writing on the wall, and that's why they agreed that Packy should fetch me the fancy red crutches. They appeased me with baubles instead of thrusting the truth in my face.

That was the day that I knew that I could stay on this island forever and try to convince myself that it was therapeutic; my leg would heal faster and I would be on my feet again. That was also the day I knew it was bullshit. The leg was not going to get better. Only worse. How many times did reality have to hit me over the head?

I needed to go home … wherever I could find one …

Hooley got there in early afternoon. I was on the front porch in the rattan chair, getting soaked by wind gusts full of raindrops. I was leaning forward with both hands wrapped around my angry thigh. The rain hid the tears I could no longer hold back, and he had to pry my hands away roughly to get me to focus. I was going into another bout of breakthrough pain, and he could see the desperation in my face.

He knelt at my side with my wrists locked into his hands. "Hey, Mon … the pain again?"

I nodded. All I was capable of …

He released me and jumped off the porch toward the dune buggy. He snapped up his big leather medicine bag from the front seat and ran back with it. He forced me to my feet and guided me inside to the bed. Both of us soaking wet, he helped me lie down. "Nice crutches, Mon," he grumbled, rummaging in his bag for the morphine syringe.

The look I gave him must have been homicidal. He didn't make any more jokes.

How I wanted to yell at him not to use the drug! If this kept up I would soon be hopelessly addicted. But when there is an anchor chain the size of the one on _Titanic_ wrapped around your leg and about to dismember you at the hip, medical protocol is the last thing you give a shit about.

The next thing I was aware of was the radio at full volume. "Stars and Stripes Forever". Hooley stood beside it beating a cadence on the top with both palms. "Armed Forces Radio", he announced above the blare of the music. "Cities Service Band of America."

"Shut that damned thing off!" I yelled.

The latest ordeal was ended and I felt like I'd been run down by a Sherman tank. My muscles were like latex rubber and my eyeballs were burning with salty tears. My clothing was soaked to the skin; part rain and part left-over hysterics. I glared at him across the space between us.

For some fool reason I lifted my arm and reached for his hand. I had never done this with Hooley before, but wasn't surprised when he stepped forward and enclosed my fingers in his own. He held fast, waiting, because he knew I wanted to say something and I was gathering the strength … and the words.

"I don't know how you always find me when I'm in trouble, my friend. But you do. You and Packy and Amos and the others … always do. There's a dam inside me that holds back words sometimes. But thank you. I thought I was going to die today."

I felt him squeeze my hand tightly between both of his, and I didn't know how to feel about that. I just smiled crookedly and lay back on the pillow.

When I awoke next it was dark. The Zenith was playing cowboy music. Softly. Red Foley, Patsy Cline, Marty Robbins, Lo-Retty. I swam with it, letting the twangy voices and slide guitars soothe my soul and bring my muddled senses slowly back to normal. The rain had stopped and there was a full moon over the ocean. A few scattered clouds scudded by. The night was very quiet. No voices floating in the breeze from down the beach; no singing … and no juke box. I should do something about that …

I looked down at myself. I was dry. Scrubs and an old tee shirt. Both shoes and socks were off. My leg was cushioned on a pillow with heating a pad set on 'low' placed across the bitchy thigh. I raised my head and looked around.

Hooley was in the kitchen area, bent over the stove. It looked like he was heating water, because there were no flavorful smells emanating. Had he given me another sponge bath? I had lectured him about that once before. The thought of another man running hands over my nude body gave me the damn gollywobbles and beetles in the belly. All that paranoid stuff that makes straight guys want to barf.

He turned around with a large wooden spoon in his hand that I'd never seen before. There was a wooden bowl on the table that he'd been stirring. He stopped when he saw I was awake, nearly spilling sudsy water all over his shirt. I grunted out a laugh just to break up the moment, and glowered at him. "Manhandling me again, weren't ya?"

He set the bowl on the edge of the table nearest my bed. "I have indeed, Mon. You were so sticky … and stinky … with pain-sweat that I could not let it go. If you can roll slightly onto your left side, I can sponge your back and remove the towel you are lying on. You will feel much better."

I sighed with resignation and did as he asked. I knew him well enough by this time that I also knew he was merely doing his job. "Go ahead," I grumbled. "Have your way with me."

He was chuckling; a rumble from deep in his throat. He wrung out the cloth and cleansed my back with it. I had to admit that it felt good, and I could smell the tang of Irish Spring. He pulled away the towel beneath me and adjusted the heating pad on my thigh. "Would you like me to reposition the pillow beneath your leg?"

"I'm fine," I said. Hooley just rolled his eyes and got up to return the bowl and spoon to the sink.

It was right after that that I told him … it was time for me to go.

Before I wore out my welcome. Before I became a burden. I should go back and do some research for the right surgeon to evaluate my physical condition and run tests and recommend the correct course of action.

Was I going to lose it? (Almost a certainty.) Or could it be saved? (And I remain a crutch-wielding cripple.) Hell … I already knew the answer …

There were no blubbery emotional scenes between us. Our friendship had deepened without that. He just nodded acceptance as though he'd known it was coming. He probably had. "I shall miss you, Kyle Calloway. We have learned much from each other … all of it most valuable to both."

"Back at'cha, Mister. You and Packy are the first real friends I've had in a lot of years. I'll see you tomorrow … and then I have to make plans."

"Understood."

Shortly after that he left. I heard the dune buggy's engine fade away down the beach.

I got out of the bed and shoved the crutches under my arms. I began to circle the room, testing the utility of my leg.

The radio was playing Roy and Dale's "Happy Trails".

Like even the damn Zenith knew what the score was …

I spent the following day just resting. I ate an onion sandwich because it was easy and no cleanup. I finished the last of Moscha's mint tea.

Throughout the day I kept getting visitors. People checking up on me. Bringing me goodies. Leon and Louie brought me Lasagna, from which I ate one slice. The onion sandwich didn't like the company and assured me the lasagna would get kicked out later. I didn't doubt it.

Mister and Missus Amos … his wife's name was Mary Ann … which I learned for the first time; stopped by with fried chicken for everyone. I made excuses and didn't eat any. But others did. Mary Ann is gorgeous, and I, unashamedly, sat and ogled her like the old letch that I am. Amos didn't seem to mind. I guessed he was used to it. Or else he just ignored me because, what harm could I do? So I sat and shot the shit and stared down the front of Mary Ann's blouse for most of the afternoon.

Hooley came by later to check my leg, and I gave him hell for shooting off his big mouth about my leaving. Whereupon he reminded me that I was still considered a hero for putting the drug dealers in jail.

 _*Oh, for crying out loud!*_

Then Packy showed up. We heard a different plane land on the beach, but nobody paid it any attention. We heard the engines wind down. When he appeared at the door, he looked like 'Packy' again. Cutoffs, dirty shirt, hair-in-a-hurricane.

 _*Wow!*_

We made eye contact, but I said nothing. Him either.

We were there until dark. The booze came out and we partook. My onion sandwich learned to get along with the lasagna. Later on I introduced them both to a chicken drumstick.

I knew everyone had showed up to say goodbye and wish me fair winds and clear skies. But no one actually said any of that, and I didn't say it either. We wanted to keep the party clean.

I had come in the night and I would leave in the night. And that was that.

Again … I would miss them for a time, but after that the waters of the Red Sea would come back together again. Everyone would move on and the hole created by my presence would fill in again.

Thursday evening Packy flew me over to San Juan in the ageless DC-3. I couldn't stop grinning. He let me sit in the co-pilot's seat, and he pointed out all the bells and whistles that kept her slicing through the air. What a difference from the old Piper. I had plenty of room to stretch out my legs with the fancy red crutches leaning against my shoulders like skinny, brightly clad twins. The old blue backpak, (with the cane still sticking out the top,) slouched by my side.

Studying his weathered ageless face, I could see why he lived this life; why he ferried tourists from place to place and loved his carefree vagabond existence. Compared with having to sit on a million bucks, juggling numbers and dealing with a 'cast of hundreds' in his empire, he was free to do as he pleased, leave the details to well-paid employees, and get to know people from all walks of life. Damn if I didn't envy him a little …

I regretted leaving the Zenith behind, but even from the git-go, I'd known it was only on loan. I would miss its clear, mellow tones and the music that filled so many of the hollow spots inside my empty soul.

I left the two suitcases of old clothing there in the closet, and wore the same thing outgoing as I had worn incoming. In the humidor in the supply closet, a final one-grand bill, along with a short message for you-know-who:

"Hooley:

"You taught me to say 'thank you'.

 **Thank you!**

GH-KC"

That damn cabin I would not miss.

The place had been strange and cavernous for me after a while, and it made me a lonelier and more self-loathing man than I had ever been before in my life. But it also taught me a few valuable lessons. It taught me that I did not want to be alone forever, as I had once thought I deserved to be. There was something still waiting up ahead that I couldn't afford to miss.

It made no difference whether I had a right leg or if I did not. One missing limb could not diminish me as a man if I didn't let it. ("It's just a damn leg!") I would live my life and keep my eyes open for the thing that would fulfill me. And then I would reach out for it.

Packy and I shook hands firmly when he helped me disembark at the airport in San Juan.

We did not let things get maudlin, and our eyes did not mist up. I would let my 'girly' side come out only after the 737 took off for Newark.

I leaned heavily on the bright red crutches they had given me, and I watched him walk away, back to his handsome silver Douglass aircraft.

He did not look back.

I, however, stood like a tree rooted deep to the ground and watched him out of sight.

130


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"HOME … ?"

THE PLANE LANDED WITHOUT INCIDENT AT NEWARK'S LIBERTY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT AT 3:00 A.M. FRIDAY.

I HAD SLEPT MOST OF THE WAY, BUT I WAS STILL TIRED AND SORE AND HUNGRY, NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER. ATTENDANTS WHEELED ME OFF THE PLANE AND TOOK ME ACROSS THE CONCOURSE TO THE INTERNATIONAL CHECK-IN DESK, WHERE I WAS ONCE AGAIN ALLOWED TO BYPASS THE METAL DETECTOR. NO ONE MENTIONED MY UNUSUAL LACK OF LUGGAGE.

ON THE OTHER SIDE I PUSHED OUT OF THE CHAIR, GOT THE CRUTCHES UNDER ME, THE BACKPAK OVER MY SHOULDER AND WAVED OFF ALL OFFERS OF HELP. I REMEMBERED TO THANK THE TWO YOUNG ATTENDANTS WHO ASSISTED ME TO DEPLANE. THEY HELPED ME SETTLE THE BACKPAK FIRMLY BEFORE THEY TOOK THE WHEELCHAIR AND WHISKED IT AWAY.

I WAS TIRED TO THE BONE AND I HURT LIKE HELL. ALL I WANTED WAS TO GRAB A QUICK SANDWICH, HAIL A TAXI TO GET ACROSS TOWN AND CHECK INTO THE NEAREST HOTEL. I WAITED … NOT PATIENTLY, BUT QUIETLY … TO BE PROCESSED THROUGH THE FINAL GATE.

A BORED FEMALE SECURITY GUARD WAVED AN ELECTRONIC WAND OVER ME, AS THOUGH EACH BRIGHT METAL CRUTCH MIGHT BE FILLED WITH SUSPICIOUS CONTRABAND. AFTER NOSING ABOUT IN MY BACKPAK SHE ASKED IF IT WAS MY ONLY PIECE OF LUGGAGE.

I NODDED: "YES."

WHEN SHE FINGERED THE CANE AND ASKED LOUDLY WHETHER I'D EVER USED IT AS A WEAPON, I SAID WITH ALL THE SARCASM I COULD MUSTER: "NOT YET!"

"YOU GOT ANYTHING TO DECLARE?"

"YEAH … I DECLARE THAT YOU'RE AN IDIOT."

AFTER WHICH, SHE BENT DOWN AS THOUGH TO EXAMINE MY SOCK FOOT AND MAKE SURE THERE WAS NO CONTRABAND IN THERE.

I SAID: "I HAVE DIAMOND CHIPS STASHED IN MY SOCK, BUT IF YOU TOUCH MY FOOT, YOU'LL FIND YOURSELF ON THE FLOOR!"

ACROSS THE AISLE, HER OLDER FEMALE SUPERVISOR WARNED HER AWAY FROM ME WITH A LIFT OF HER HEAD. "GIVE THE MAN A BREAK, NANCY. CAN'T YOU SEE HE'S TIRED AND IN PAIN? GO AHEAD, SIR. GET ON HOME TO YOUR FAMILY. HAVE A GOOD NIGHT."

I MADE A NASTY FACE AT THE BROAD AND NODDED GRATEFULLY TO HER BOSS.

"THANKS …"

AND I CLOMPED AWAY.

Outside on the huge deck where passengers waited for their flights to be called, I lowered myself into one of the many seats and tried to gather enough strength to keep going. The terminal was just as chaotic at 3:30 a.m. as it was in broad daylight.

Just like hospitals, the desperation aspect at international airports never ends. Every minute brings another crisis. The panic level of nervous travelers runs at a high pitch as they scurry back and forth checking their ticket information and craning their necks to be sure they were where they were supposed to be. The novices looked at their watches every two minutes, afraid they would miss their flights or arrive at the wrong gate at the wrong time. Downright entertaining. Watching them took my mind off the ache in my leg. Seasoned travelers watched the newbies over the tops of their newspapers and smiled serenely to themselves. I entertained myself by watching the watchers and the watched.

The waiting area was cavernous, and the pitch of voices, especially unhappy infants, whining children and bitchy parents, pierced my brain like an ice pick thrust into my ear. After a time, even the amusing aspect of the place was more than I wanted to put up with.

Exhaustion was gaining and my leg insisted that I needed to move again. I waited another two minutes and then struggled back to my feet, shouldering the backpak and positioning the crutches. I moved across the plaza in search of a restaurant where I could grab a cup of coffee and a sandwich. I also needed to ask about the availability of a port where I could charge my cell phone. It had been turned off for a year and was dead as a doornail. I assumed most of these places had ports available for a fee.

I left through a door with an electronic eye that opened before me and closed after me, and I paused outside as the odor of gasoline and diesel fumes, greasy food smells and other combined odors hit my senses like a smack on the head. In Barbados there was always the sharp, raw scent of salt water and sand, ocean breezes heavy with seaweed and marine life, and tropical vegetation. I missed it like crazy for a few moments.

I thought of the small group of people who had watched over me on the island, and I missed them too. No use denying it … I was hooked on the pleasure of having friends.

I walked on then, through another electronic door and along a line of shops and kiosks and small eateries of almost every ethnicity I'd ever known, and some that I hadn't.

I wandered toward the nearest small diner and backed into the door until it popped open. It was not automatic. A tattooed young man saw me struggling and pulled the thing back to its limit until I was safely inside. I thanked him profusely and plopped into the nearest empty booth. I hung up the crutches and plopped the backpak on the seat. Clumsily I hefted my leg up also and watched as it slithered out and away from my body like a giant worm. I ordered a bowl of chili, two buttered rolls and a cup of coffee. The chili was already made and simmering on the stove. I could smell it.

I asked the waitress about a charging port for my phone. She pointed to the area near my elbow that was partially blocked by the napkin holder. She said it would be five dollars to open the port. I thanked her and got out the cord to my phone. Plugged in and waited. After she had gone back to the kitchen, the little red light came on.

I ate the chili and the rolls while the phone was charging. Actually, the food wasn't bad. By the time I'd finished the coffee and the rest, the light on the charging connection went out and I removed it from the port. I scrolled around looking for the numbers of local taxi services. I called the first one I came across and told the dispatcher where to find me. Then I took a pair of Vicodin and tried to relax. The diner wasn't busy, so I felt no pressure to leave. I dozed, woke, dozed and woke again. The waitress came back and presented the bill. I gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. She bowed a silent 'thank you' and retreated.

Shortly I heard the door open and close, and a short man with a physique like a walking fire plug stepped inside and said loudly: "Who in here called for a cab?"

"That would be me," I said, stumbling out of the booth. I settled the crutches beneath me and hefted the backpak.

The guy's eyes widened as he looked me over: One shoe, old blue backpak with a battered cane sticking out the top: a raunchy dude who could barely navigate under his own steam, but sporting a fancy pair of rolled-steel crutches painted with bright red lacquer …

 _*Oh here we go …*_

When the guy reached for my backpak and waggled his fingers for me to hand it over, I stared at him suspiciously. "C'mon, buddy," he said, "you're in no kind'a shape to do more than carry your own self, let along this damned thing. Let me give you a hand. I'm a cab driver, not a petty thief."

His remark struck me as funny, so I willingly handed the backpak across. "Thanks. I appreciate the help."

He nodded. "Thought you might. I'm parked right outside the concourse. Be careful your crutch there don't get caught on the door jamb …" He was holding the door for me; standing out of the way. I nodded back to him as I made my way through.

When we were in the cab, he asked where I wanted to go.

"Downtown. Drake Hotel. Corner of …"

"That's okay, buddy … I know where it is. Been doin' this gig since Christ made corporeal. I know this dirty ol' town like the back'a my hand."

I couldn't argue with that. I knew he was watching me in the mirror, so I just nodded.

"How'd ya come by the fucked up foot, buddy? Accident?"

"Yah," (Holding back a snort of laughter.) "Got t-boned by a drunk driver. Smashed me under the dash. It was bad. Still might lose it ..."

"Ah jeez! I'm sorry, buddy. I didn't mean to pry. I was just curious."

"That's okay. Shit happens, I guess."

"Bother you much?"

"Every day."

After that, he shut up.

When we pulled up in front of the Drake, I handed him a C-note and his eyes got even wider than they had been at the diner. "Thanks, Man!"

He carried my backpak into the lobby and up to the registration desk. I thanked him … with sincerity. He was a busybody, but he meant well. Surprisingly I was beginning to take notice of small nuances in people that hinted to me that, given the chance, most of them were actually decent.

"Take care, buddy," the driver said as he walked away.

"You too," I replied, even as the lobby door closed behind him.

I turned back to the desk to face a handsome older woman standing behind the counter. I looked at the clock on the wall behind her. It was almost 4:30 a.m. No wonder my ass was dragging. I'd been awake for almost twenty-four hours, part of that with a quart of morphine coursing through my veins.

"I'll need a room for about a week," I said. "Maybe not as long as that, maybe longer. Can I pay ahead?"

She studied my face for a moment, probably appraising my looks and the pain lines etched there. I gave her the blue-eyes treatment and she smiled slowly. I guessed she had not judged me as someone who had been sleeping under a bridge …

When she nodded, I thought she might tear up.

 _*Oh for chris'sake!*_

"Would you like a room with handicap accommodations? You look like you could use it. Actually, you look like you're about to fall over." She smiled tentatively.

I couldn't help it. I dipped my head and shrugged slightly. She was pretty close to right. I had been given sympathy by a 'Goody-Two-Shoes'. A year ago I would have given her the cold shoulder and stomped off. Such accommodation to my physical limitations had occurred three or four times today. It was actually becoming pleasant for me to see that some people actually tried to help after appraising my situation.

"Yeah, please. I'd appreciate that. I get tired pretty easy and sometimes I need all the help I can get." I'd already said more than I intended, but my tank was running on 'empty', and she looked like a nice person.

I signed the register and gave her five hundreds and pocketed the receipt. She seemed shocked at the large denominations, but I begged off, explaining I'd been out of the country for some time, and needed to reestablish my accounts. (Such bullshit, but she seemed satisfied.)

She scanned the bills and then slid them beneath the tray of the cash register. She led me slowly across the dimly lit lobby to the elevators, even insisting on carrying my backpak. She told me she was Mrs. McIvers and she was the night clerk.

I told her my name was Kyle Calloway. She probably already knew that from my signature in the log book, but said nothing.

My room number was 317, and she unlocked the door, snapped on the lights and handed me the key on a small wooden paddle. (How quaint!) She laid my backpak on the bed and led me through the rooms to acquaint me with the amenities. The doorways were wide to accommodate wheelchairs, and the large bathroom looked like a practice arena for The Flying Wallendas. A folding wheelchair was stashed behind the door, and there was a dim night light at every wall plate.

I shook my head. "Reminds me of a gymnasium in here …"

"The contractor whose team installed this suite uses a wheelchair herself, so I took her word that she knew what she was doing …"

I smiled to myself. _*Bobbie Mae Chambers. I remember her. Feisty ol' broad. She designed and built the new therapy room at PPTH about seven years ago. Small world.*_ However, I did not voice any of that. Just nodded.

She left me to my own devices then, after showing me where all the emergency call buttons were located.

When she had gone, I flopped on the bed beside the backpak, feeling a cloud of exhaustion lower over me like a blanket. I could have used a shower at the very least, but I had no strength left to pull it off. The only thing I could pull off at the moment was my top layer of clothing. Which I did. I dumped the whole works on the floor, including the crutches and backpak, and settled into that soft, comfortable bed. I didn't even turn off the lights. And that was all she wrote …

When I finally drifted up from the fog of sleep, it was because of a restlessness in my leg that wouldn't let me alone any longer.

Deep in the ruined muscle beneath the scar I could feel a cramp building and expanding up and out, seizing the truncated nerves even tighter than I could have done it with both hands. The pain was sharp and stabbing, and it snatched my senses like an automaton; straight up in the bed. I was suddenly wide awake, both hands grabbing at the spot and pressing roughly, willing the pain to let go.

Even when it started to ease after thirty seconds or so, I was a puddle of jelly; too weak to move and too damn sore to try. Just happy that it had progressed no further. I collapsed where I lay. Limp and torpid, making a deep dent in the bed covers. There were hazy halos surrounding every object within my sight, so I closed my eyes against them and willed myself to ride it out.

I could feel the tingling in every nerve ending when the synapses began to return tactile sensation to the cells one by one. Funny. From puddle, to sponge, to symbiant, to fetus, to human being. All in slow-motion. I could feel every upward movement, clicking along the evolutionary transition as I returned, finally, to the ability to create movement with my own force of will.

I opened my eyes again and the room returned to normal. No halos, but my leg still hurt like hell and was demanding medication.

I sat with my hands on the muscle that still pulsed with residual tremors. I should dig out the Vicodin and feed the damned thing what it wanted.

I had the backpak on the bed in front of me and the crutches leaning on the mattress when the phone on the bedside table rang with a trembling sound like a keychain being shaken. Since no one of my acquaintance could possibly know where I was, I decided it must be Mrs. McIvers … checking up on me.

I was right … and wrong. When I lifted the receiver and answered, a somewhat younger female voice said: "Mr. Calloway?"

"Yeah … who's this?"

"My name is Margo Mason, Mr. Calloway. Mrs. McIvers asked me to call you about two o'clock to check on your … ahh … check to see whether you're all right? Since you're in the handicap suite and … sorry, I don't mean to pry … But are you okay? She was concerned …"

I sighed. This was going to be an interesting stay. Not one, but _two_ 'Goody-Two-Shoes' females with cow eyes for the wounded-and-bloody males in their midst. How the hell could I get so lucky on my first day back in the states? I hoped the damn hotel had a few male staff members who would just look me up and down and go about their business.

"I'm fine, thanks. I just got up from a very nice, long sleep. Thanks for checking, but I'm good. Really." I was biting my lips raw from the flow of lies erupting from between them.

 _*Get the hell off the phone, Nurse! I'm a big boy now.*_

"That's good to know, Mr. Calloway. If you need anything, please call. Goodbye."

"'Bye," I said, and hung up and said a few choice words under my breath. She was insulted. I could tell by the abruptness.

 _*Well shit!*_

I dragged my sorry ass to the bathroom and plopped the backpak on the counter by the sink. I dug out the Vicodin and took two with a tiny paper cup of water. After relieving myself I sat back down on the commode seat and undressed the rest of the way to the skin. I rubbed my palm experimentally over the scar. The recovering nerves reminded me not to press too hard or they would become angry again. I sighed and stretched my leg out to relax it.

Looking down in appraisal of my knobby body, it was obvious I'd been in the sun in a much warmer climate than this one. My arms and legs were dark from the Barbados sun. My face, with the newly trimmed beard, reminded me of Robert DiNiro on a bad day.

I pushed myself up and step-hopped to the fancy turbo-tub with the aid of grab bars. I opened the door and slid onto the bench. Looking around, I closed the drain, locked the door handle and turned on the cascading water as hot as I could stand it. Modern plumbing! Blew my mind.

It filled quickly and I found that if I slid downward, I was soon immersed to my neck in luxuriant hot sudsy water. It did wonders for my pissed-off leg. Lingering discomfort from the long trip back to the states faded like melting butter. Leisurely I lathered my hair and my face and ran a washcloth across my body, pretending I was being ravished by some luscious young thing …

 _*Yeah … right!*_

After a half hour I let the water drain out and rinsed off with the spray attachment that I pulled out of the wall. I wrapped up in a Turkish towel and followed the path of grab bars back to the sink. Quickly I trimmed the beard and mustache and shaved down the rest 'til I was satisfied with the result. With this face, one can only do so much …

The bed still looked inviting, but I needed to get some things done, and I reluctantly turned away from the temptation. I sat down and pulled the backpak to my side. Methodically I pulled item after item out of its murky depths until I was completely surrounded by a litter of "stuff", including my wallet and a mountain of crumpled, wrinkled and smelly cash. I sorted it according to denominations and came up with 16,477 dollars and about ten bucks worth of change from the poker playing. After a year on Barbados, I figured I'd pretty much come out ahead of the game. I rolled the biggest bills and put a rubber band around them. The rest I stuffed in the wallet to use for incidentals. Finally, at the bottom of the bag, I found what I'd been looking for: One pair of blue jeans, two white tee shirts, two pairs of grey socks and two pairs of boxer briefs. Except for my laptop and its charger and my beard trimmer, I dumped everything else back in the backpak and set it aside. It was significantly lighter.

I had to stop first at Vince Crane's place to get the Dynasty, providing he hadn't got sick of it sitting around and sent it off to that big junkyard in the sky …

I must register my new name at the court house, but I could probably do that by mail or online. I figured a spoken name didn't necessarily have to coincide with the written one … did it?

I must also find a ground-floor apartment, or a second-floor or third-floor place with an elevator: a place where I could roost while I researched for the right surgeon to evaluate my leg and make arrangements for the inevitable amputation. (I needed to stop fooling myself.)

First the Dynasty. Then the storage unit. Then the apartment. I hoped my endurance lasted long enough to get it all done.

I called Vince Crane, bracing myself for the explosion at the other end of the line when he realized who was calling.

I wasn't disappointed.

"Jeezuschrist! **Greg!** Greg House? Is it really you? You've returned from the dead. I was beginning to think you disappeared into a black hole. How are you? _Where_ are you?"

I was laughing. There was just no other way to greet what came over that phone line, detonating a land mine against my eardrum. "Take it easy, Vince. Slow down. I said I'd be back to settle up, didn't I? Well, I'm back, and I'd like to pick up my car … if it's ready …"

"Ohmigod! It's so good to hear your voice … I can't tell ya … whaddaya mean, ' _if it's ready?'_ It's been ready for eight months. It looks so damn good that I could've sold it ten times over. Even Jimmy said it looked good. So when are you coming by to get it?"

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. He had talked to Wilson. I gulped back the implications and let it drop.

"How about now? I kinda need it, y'know? Figure up a final bill and I'll settle up when I see you. How've you been? You sound the same."

There was a slight hesitation. We had been on the line for more than a minute and I had not called him an obscene name or insulted his manhood or his intelligence. It stood to reason that he might wonder if I was an imposter. "I'm good," he finally said. "Except you haven't called me an asshole yet. Are you sure this is really you?"

I laughed again. "Knew you were thinking that. I'm coming over there, so if you want me to call you an asshole, that can be arranged … in about a half hour."

I decided not to tell him about my name change. If he still had contact with Wilson, then my little game of making Wilson come to me would go down the drain and all my scheming would be for nothing. The taxi dropped me off in front of his dealership and I made my way through the front door very cautiously. Vince was at his desk, but when he heard the door open, he came hurrying around it to meet me as I approached him.

"Aw Greg … no-o-o … ! You told me you were going away until your leg healed. I put the hand controls in your car, but I didn't think you'd need them. What the hell is this?"

I shrugged. "Sorry, Vince … didn't work. It got worse. I guess one of these days I'm gonna lose it."

"Ah man … that sucks. I'm so sorry. Are you still in pain? And what's with the foot?"

Turns out, I told him everything. When I'd first had the infarction, Vince was so horrified that it took years before he could gather the courage to even face me. Now, things were changing for both of us. I didn't call him an asshole, and he didn't cringe from the sight of me. My leg was worse, but his courage had grown and moved into sorrowful acceptance. To my surprise, he moved closer and took me into his embrace, rubbing my back and whispering: "I'm so damn sorry … you didn't deserve this, my friend." I was embarrassed to the tips of my reddened ears, and Vince knew it, but it seemed he couldn't help himself. We stood with shoulders touching long enough that he was embarrassed as well, and we backed away slowly.

Later, he mentioned that he had talked to Wilson briefly, and sold him an older model car because he had moved to a rougher part of town. Wilson intended to move on, Vince said, but he didn't know where yet. I stored the information, but didn't comment on it, other than to say it was a shame that all of us had to break up the way we did.

After that, I approached my own beautiful old car … bill paid in full … somehow Vince said I'd sent enough … and opened the door. There was nothing left for us to talk about.

When I started it up, the Dynasty purred like a kitten. I waved to Vince and drove out the back way. I waved to Joe too, set the hand controls and pulled into the sunlight.

Now to the storage unit.

Home was the cripple … home from Fantasy Island …

139


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

"Bitter Undercurrents"

I DIDN'T GET EVERYTHING DONE THAT I WANTED TO DO THAT DAY. IT TURNED OUT TO BE IMPOSSIBLE. I DROVE OVER TO THE STORAGE UNIT TO LOAD UP SOME CLOTHING TO HOLD ME OVER UNTIL I GOT MYSELF ESTABLISHED IN THE AREA AND FOUND A WAY FOR 'KYLE CALLOWAY' TO HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT WHILE HE PULLED HIMSELF TOGETHER.

I FOUND AN EMPLOYEE ON DUTY AT THE STORAGE UNIT WHO WAS WILLING TO HELP SOMEONE ON CRUTCHES TO LOAD A COUPLE OF OLD SUITCASES INTO HIS TRUNK. I WAS ALSO ABLE TO LOCATE A SMALL AM-FM RADIO IN THERE THAT I'D KEPT IN MY CLOSET IN PRINCETON FOR YEARS. I MISSED THE BIG ZENITH AND HOPED THE SMALLER ONE WOULD BRING IN HALF THE STATIONS I'D ENJOYED ON BARBADOS.

BY THE TIME I FINISHED THERE AND LEFT THE GUY A TWENTY DOLLAR TIP, MY LEG WAS RATCHETING UP WITH BURNING PAIN THAT QUICKLY OVERTOOK ME. I KNEW IT WOULD BE USELESS TO STUMBLE AROUND CHECKING APARTMENTS, SO I RETURNED TO THE CAR AND DROVE BACK TO THE DRAKE.

I HAD TO PARK OUT BACK IN THEIR GUEST LOT AND WALK INSIDE THROUGH A CORRIDOR THAT RAN PARALLEL TO THE RESTAURANT. BY THE TIME I MADE IT TO THE FRONT DESK I WAS READY TO DROP. I LEANED ON THE COUNTER AND WAITED FOR THE MAN WORKING THERE TO FINISH HIS CONVERSATION WITH ANOTHER GUEST. PRESENTLY HE TURNED AWAY AND APPROACHED ME WHERE I STOOD. "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, SIR?" I MUST HAVE LOOKED LIKE HELL.

MY BARK OF LAUGHTER WAS SARCASTIC, BUT I DROPPED MY HEAD AND LOWERED MY VOICE IN THE ATTEMPT TO _NOT_ LOOK PATHETIC. "I'M JUST … REALLY TIRED. I'M REGISTERED IN ROOM 317. I NEED SOMEONE TO GET TWO SUITCASES OUT OF MY CAR AND BRING THEM UP TO MY ROOM. IS THAT OKAY? THERE'S NO HURRY, BUT I NEED TO GET BACK UP THERE BEFORE I FALL DOWN. SORRY."

THE GUY'S HEAD CAME UP QUICKLY AND HIS EXPRESSION CHANGED. HE PICKED UP THE HOUSE PHONE, DIALED A NUMBER AND SPOKE BRIEFLY. HE PLACED A HAND ON MY ARM AND SAID IN A LOW VOICE: "CAN YOU KEEP IT TOGETHER FOR A FEW SECONDS? SOMEONE IS COMING TO HELP."

"YEAH. THANK YOU." I LEANED HARD ON THE COUNTER AS THE FIRE BURNED ABOVE MY KNEE.

I WAS AWARE OF TWO OTHER MEN … STRANGERS … WALKING UP ON EITHER SIDE OF ME. I SUSPECTED THAT THEY WERE HOTEL GUESTS WHO HAD SEEN THE SITUATION AND STEPPED IN TO ASSIST. ONE OF THEM GRASPED BENEATH MY LEFT ARM AND THE OTHER, MY RIGHT. THEY WERE JUST IN TIME, OR I WOULD HAVE DROPPED.

From across the lobby a young man came running with a wheelchair. I was vaguely aware of being helped into it. The kid was wearing a Princeton hoodie, and I watched him circle around in front of me to put the brakes on the chair. He knelt and adjusted the right leg rest, and then lifted my leg carefully to position it on top.

The kid and another guy accompanied me to my room, but I was a little too out-of-it to pay much attention. I remember saying that I needed my suitcases out of my car and handing over the keys. For all I knew, he might be a descendent of Al Capone, but I didn't give a shit at that particular moment. I was too busy rubbing at the scar. The man from the lobby stayed with me and the younger one hurried out the door.

"Sorry for making a scene down there," I said. "This … (pointing to my leg) … is a major inconvenience sometimes. I hope I didn't throw a monkey wrench into your plans …"

The guy grinned at me, obviously relieved that I wasn't about to pass out on him. "Yeah, you threw the monkey wrench, but your timing was incredible. I was trying to back out of a really boring blind date. I told the woman I was with that I thought I should stay with you. It pissed her off and she left, so thank God for monkey wrenches, huh?"

I smiled and reached out my hand. "Monkey wrenches can come in handy sometimes. I'm Kyle Calloway, by the way. Thanks for your help. I was losing it down there."

We shook hands. "I'm Steve Bohner, Kyle. Nice to meet you. Can I get you a drink of water? You look like you could use it."

"Yeah, sounds good. Should be some in the carafe on the table over there. Wish I had something stronger. We could indulge."

Steve walked over, picked up a glass and poured. Walked back and handed me the glass. "Me too," he said.

I drank; drained the glass.

"More?"

"No thanks."

The key turned in the lock and the kid with my suitcases and radio struggled through the door. "Here's your luggage, Mr. Calloway. Okay to leave them here?" He set them both down and returned the car keys and radio to the small table inside the door.

"How'd you know my name?"

"Oh … sorry … I'm Patrick McIvers. That's my dad working the front desk. He told me about you."

"Small world," I mumbled. "They're okay where they are. Thank you. Patrick, this is Steve Bohner."

Patrick grinned. "I know … he's a guest." The kid wiggled his eyebrows.

Steve and I frowned.

When Steve left to go back to his own room, Patrick stayed behind to babysit. No other word for it. I'm not sure of his motivations, but he told me he was not leaving until he was sure I was okay. Ten or twenty "I'm fines" did nothing to deter him.

So I started a conversation, hoping that if I got him talking about himself, it might take the focus off me. That worked. Turns out he had graduated from high school in the spring and was working with his folks at the hotel until he started college at Princeton in the fall … which wasn't that far away.

I told him I'd been out of the country for an extended time and had just returned, repeating the same mantra I'd handed out to his grandmother the morning before. We talked about this and that while he opened my suitcases and placed them on a low chest of drawers where my stuff would be convenient for me. He found a prescription bottle full of Vicodin that I'd forgotten about, and I asked him to put them in the bathroom, which he did.

He plugged in the radio beside the bed and found a station playing popular hits. I let it go … it was his kind of music. He told me he really liked my old car. Thought it was in beautiful shape for its age. I kept my own counsel on that one, laughing in my head as I handed him another line of bullshit. I said I believed in taking good care of a car so the car would take good care of me …

One of the biggest lies I'd ever told. He bought it, hook line and sinker. He almost turned summersaults over the ten spot I handed him when everything was finished, and I didn't look like I would faint or fall out of the wheelchair. He left ten minutes later after almost getting down on his knees thanking me.

 _*Everybody lies!"_

The rest of the afternoon I spent catering to the pain in my leg. I took a couple of Vicodin and shed the jeans. If the pain intensified, it would be easier to massage it naked than if I had to work at it through a layer of thick denim.

I ordered room service for the evening meal because I wasn't about to get dressed to go down to the dining room. I propped myself against the head of the bed with a blanket over my legs and my laptop on a pillow in my lap. The wheelchair stood beside the bed close by where the waiter would see the poor cripple doing some kind of very important work on his computer … (snicker).

The food was wonderful. Four-ounces of medium-rare sirloin, smothered in mushrooms and onions; almond green beans in spider sauce, and scalloped potatoes, filled the bill very well. A tall Coors Silver Bullet in a glass and another one on ice completed the feast. Oh yeah!

As the evening progressed, the waiter removed my food cart and I added another ten to his pocketbook. Amazing how sweet people can be at the sight of money.

I switched the stations on the radio and was lying back on the pillow tapping my fingers to the sounds of a really good blues band. The TV stood silent. I had broken the TV habit on Barbados and wasn't even surprised that I didn't miss it. I thought about Hooley and Amos and Packy and wished one or all of them could be here to shoot the shit with. I also thought about resuming the leg exercises … I couldn't think about Hooley without adding those into the equation. His nagging was worse than Wilson's in some regards. With a smile I recalled the impression the man had made on me from the start, and the way his influence still hacked into my brain from over two thousand miles away.

After that, I returned my thoughts briefly to my old team at Princeton-Plainsboro: the people I'd used and abused and exploited for how many years? Ten? … at that hospital. They were scattered now. I remembered Foreman who tried so hard to keep from becoming me. He never quite succeeded, but at least he managed to inherit the good and let go of the bad.

Chase, the pretty boy … the tattletale and ass kisser … was a gifted surgeon, even if he couldn't keep his zipper zipped or his big mouth shut. Cameron, the original 'goody two-shoes', whom I had hired because she was pretty, had somehow disappeared into the big beyond. What became of her I had no idea, and it didn't matter anymore. I hoped she was happy, wherever she was.

I also hoped Remy Hadley … my friend "Thirteen" … had found a life for herself with the woman I'd seen her with the last time we spoke. She deserved some kind of break before the roof fell in. I wondered if she would try to contact me when it was time to turn her lights out for good … as I had promised.

Chris Taub I respected. He was a good doctor too, and I wished him well. Kutner was just _gone,_ and that was that. The last two females whose names I can't remember to save my soul, skittered in and out of my life before I really took notice of them. Caricatures in a long-forgotten one-act play.

Lisa Cuddy's name, floating around in my head, gave me the sensation of chewing on moth balls. Her memory left a really bad taste in my mouth. She was fun sometimes, totally vindictive at other times, and blatantly seductive _all_ the time. I compared her with the pain in my leg: seductive, demanding, selfish and unrelenting. Yeah, I was over Cuddy. _Way_ over. Together we were like poison to each other. I have better things to do than moon over 'what might have been' with someone I had no business being with in the first place.

Then there's Wilson. That bastard takes over my thoughts even when I least want him there. When I was feeling sorry for my pathetic situation, his voice was always in my ear: "Get over yourself, House!" Sometimes when I woke in the morning I could still hear him purring: "Could you eat some macadamia pancakes?" And the many times he caught me dog-swallowing another dose of Vicodin: "Therapy, House. Therapy. Not more pills."

What can I say about Wilson? Except … I miss his bitching, his demands, his idiocy and his bleeding heart. I miss his neatnik ways and his constant protective presence at my side. He was the Felix to my Oscar; the one person I couldn't discourage with harsh words, and the most important influence in my crummy life. Now he's gone. I hate the thought that I might never see him again.

 _*Christ! Poor me …*_

Eventually, my vagabond imaginings came full circle and I thought about my parents … those two strange people who, in tandem, screwed up my early life. My shitty attitude did nothing to help the situation, but they continually gave mixed signals. John laid down the rules and Blythe endorsed them, especially if he was around.

When he was off somewhere playing with his big, powerful toys, she was the most human. She cooked my favorite dishes, spent time playing with me, and gave me my first instruction on the piano. At those times I loved her unconditionally. But when John came in the front door, she reverted to the automaton she always was in his presence. I quickly adopted the belief that I had three parents: the fun-mom one and the U. S. Marine ones.

At twelve years of age, I found out the truth. My father was not my father; not the biological one anyway. So I shut him out of my head and out of my life. The ice baths stopped, and so did the military discipline. I simply ignored him, and my indifference preyed on him. He began to let me alone.

Now, as I think back, I wish I'd had the maturity to look for common ground, but my resentment got in the way. It lasted all the way until the day he died. Now I can't fix it.

Like my leg … it's too late.

Mom and Thomas Bell knocked me for a loop when they announced they were married. I came to believe for a while that Bell was my real dad … but Wilson, damn him, proved otherwise. Yeah, my mom, in her youth, had been a slut. Bully for her! The information had delighted me … and the question of who the hell my real father is remains unanswered. I wonder if I'm even interested anymore.

I thought to myself … maybe if I charm the hell out of her, she will tell me.

I should call … but it's almost midnight, for chrise'sake ...

Fuck it! I'll call anyhow.

I dialed their home number in Lexington just before 12:30 a.m. Chances were good that I would roust them out of bed.

The phone rang only once, and then there was a series of clicks.

A recorded message proclaimed in my ear: _"We are sorry. This line has been disconnected. For more information, call during business hours, 9:00 a.m. until .…"_

There were three numbers to call, but none were available at night.

I thought: _*What the hell?*_ I hung up and dialed again. Same message.

Scenarios raced like wildfire through my mind. Why had they disconnected? Changed the number for security reasons? Sold the house and moved? Changed their phone service?

 _*Something else? Ohmigod!*_

Quickly I dialed up Mom's cell phone. "No longer in service." Thomas Bell's … the same.

Icy dread raced down my spine. Something was wrong. I refused to let myself think _what …_

They had no idea where I'd been for the past year, and there was no one who could have told them. I had not used my phone while I was on the island, and I was unreachable in an emergency. Only three people there would have recognized the name of Gregory House. That contingency had never occurred to me.

With my heart in my throat, I dialed Mom's attorney, Luther Finn, in Lexington. The phone rang six times before it was answered by a sleepy baritone voice.

"Hullo … ?"

"Mr. Finn? Luther? This is Gregory House. I apologize for waking you, but I can't get in touch with my mother. Can you tell me where she is? I keep getting the message that their phones have all been disconnected …"

There was a long, awkward silence. Static crackled on the line.

I knew what the answer would be.

"Greg? Gregory House? My God, we tried to get in touch with you six months ago. I'm so very sorry, Greg. Your mother … and her husband, Thomas Bell … they are both deceased …"

145


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"The Big Bird Lands in Lexington"

I DROPPED THE PHONE TO THE BED BESIDE ME, FEELING BONELESS, SENSELESS AND STUNNED.

IT COULDN'T BE TRUE. MY MOTHER WAS DEAD? … AND I DIDN'T EVEN **KNOW**?

 _*OH MOM … I AM SOOO SORRY …*_

MY HEAD WAS EMPTIED OF ALL REASON, LEAVING ME HOLLOW INSIDE AND DEEP IN SHOCK. WHY HAD I NOT LEFT BEHIND A WAY FOR HER TO REACH ME WHEN THOMAS DIED? SHE NEEDED ME AT HER SIDE. THIS WAS WAY BEYOND IRRESPONSIBLE. IT WAS INEXCUSABLE.

I THOUGHT THEY WOULD LIVE FOREVER. KIDS BELIEVE THEIR PARENTS ARE IMMORTAL … BUT I'M NOT A KID ANYMORE.

THOMAS DIED BEFORE HER, LUTHER TOLD ME. SHE WAS ALONE WHEN SHE DIED ….

NO OTHER FAMILY MEMBERS WERE PRESENT WHEN MY DAD DIED, EXCEPT MOM AND ME. NOT EVEN HER SISTER, LONG GONE BY THEN. ONLY USMC BRASS AND CURIOUSITY SEEKERS.. WILSON DRAGGED ME THERE, KICKING AND SCREAMING, BUT IT DIDN'T COUNT BECAUSE IT WASN'T MY IDEA.

BLYTHE HOUSE'S ONLY CHILD … HER ONLY LIVING RELATIVE ACTUALLY … WAS TOO HIGH ON A PINNACLE OF SELF-ABSORBTION TO ASSUME HIS RIGHTFUL PLACE AND SHOW UP WHERE HE WAS SORELY NEEDED. OR EVEN HAVE THE PRESENCE OF MIND TO LET SOMEONE ELSE KNOW WHERE HE COULD BE CONTACTED. SOMEONE LIKE LUTHER …

I BROKE DOWN AND WEPT: GREAT HEAVING SOBS OF SORROW AND REGRET IN MY LONELY HOTEL ROOM. I HID MY FACE IN SHAME EVEN THOUGH THERE WAS NO ONE TO SEE THE RENOWNED DR. GREGORY HOUSE HIDING FROM HARSH REALITY AGAIN.

BUT LUTHER FINN, STILL ON THE OTHER END OF THE LINE, HEARD WHAT I WAS EXPERIENCING …

"Greg? Are you still there? Talk to me … please. I regret you had to find out this way. Are you okay?"

Luther's plea fell on deaf ears. I couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe.

My mother and her husband were dead and I had not been there for them. I had too often belittled their marriage and blew them off like cat fuzz from the furniture. In my adult life I had not been there for _anyone_ when they needed me. Was there no limit to the disregard one adult could exact upon another? I never intended to hurt her but I could not stand to look into her eyes when she was looking at me, the walking wounded. I could never be the person she needed me to be, and so I avoided the expressions of sorrow I saw on her face. I ran away to my island hideout and never told a soul … and now all my chances had come and gone. I had exhausted all the opportunities.

Determination to not become emotional after hearing bad news is one thing. Calling one's mother on impulse late at night and finding out from her lawyer that she is no longer among the living … is something entirely different. The shock of hearing news of her death literally took my breath away.

Despair welled inside me, spilling over. Like seeing your life rush past as you lay dying. I saw my childhood; every moment I'd ever spent with my parents, speeding through my memory like an old video tape set on "fast forward". The tears and shakes that followed … there seemed to be no end to them. No force of will strong enough to halt them. My eyes streamed useless tears; sobs I could not contain shook my body with such force that I found myself gripping the edge of the mattress to keep from falling off the bed.

I let the hurt wash over my empty soul and drown me in the furious waves of dreaded emotion.

Beside me, the phone chirped again with the worried voice of my mother's lawyer. Anxiously waiting for me to pull myself together.

"I'm here, Greg, whenever you can talk … I'm here. Greg?"

My head finally cleared a little as I felt myself running out of tears. I became aware of the insistent squawk from the telephone and I wiped my streaming eyes on the shoulders of my tee shirt. I lifted the receiver and spoke a few shaky words.

"Luther? It's me. Yeah. I'm okay. Thanks for waiting me out. I kind of lost it for a minute or two."

"I can understand, my boy. You've suffered a terrible shock that you weren't expecting. You have my sympathies, I assure you. Your parents … and Mr. Bell … were personal friends. With their passing you must know we should meet and talk. Your parents' and Thomas' estates are in limbo here. There are no heirs other than yourself. Are you aware of that? Their combined legacy is extensive, and we need to know your wishes about the dispensation as soon as possible.

"How soon are you able to come down here? We can't do it on the telephone."

 _*Oh Jesus!*_

I'd been attempting to pull my dismal life into some semblance of sanity, but the news of the deaths had unhinged me and driven a stake into my heart.

To undertake a trip of almost six hundred miles after so recently traveling over twenty one hundred miles might be more than I could manage in my present state of mind.

If I begged off and delayed things, I would have to confess the truth of my physical limitations. I was scared to drive that far, but I would have no choice.

I must do this for Mom, dammit. This wasn't about me!

Finally I leveled with the guy. I told him about going away for a year to give my deteriorating leg a chance to gain what recovery was possible. I did not go into detail. I said only that I was nervous about driving to Lexington, and I would need my own car if I had to drive anywhere while there.

Without a pause, Luther Finn advised me to fly down the next day and he would meet me at the airport. To my great surprise, he assured me he would be more than happy to take care of it himself. All he would need was the ETA of my flight. Easily done. After a short discussion, I agreed to take the first available flight, get my car later, and call him when I knew the schedule.

After we rang off, I booked a flight from Newark International for noon the following day, to arrive in Lexington ninety minutes later. A short flight; just a pain to get to the airport. I called Luther back with the arrival time, thanked him, and set about making provisions to step into the unknown. When the exchange was finally finished, I was shaking like a leaf. I hurt all over. I was nothing but a dismal failure.

My Mom was still dead.

Emptying the backpak of nonessentials took ten seconds … I upended it on the bed and everything fell out. I searched the luggage for a few changes of clothing to last however long I had to remain in Lexington. I dreaded having to visit that huge empty house on the outskirts of town, and I hated to think of moving through it, trying to decide what to keep … what to give up ...

Taking possession of Mom's Baldwin spinet was a no-brainer. It would be nice to have a piano again, no matter where I dropped my anchor for good. It would remind me of her whenever I played it. I would also have liked to keep Dad's big Dodge Ram, even though I was sure I would be unable to drive it. Too hard to get into the cab … and it was stick shift.

The house must go on the market. I was certain of that. I couldn't do the maintenance and yard work. I would also have to hire someone to clean and do laundry, because the washer and dryer were in the basement whose steps were impossible for me to navigate. The whole second story and attic would also be inaccessible. I did not wish to live in a huge house where my footsteps echoed through the hallways. I did not want to rattle around in there all alone.

Neither did I look forward to seeing ghosts in every corner. It would be difficult enough going through their belongings … but seeing their shadowy images watching me dispose of their lifelong possessions would be nearly intolerable.

Most of all, I had decided I really wanted to go to New England. I wanted to be the limpy old dude with handicap license plates on his car, battling snow and ice and frigid weather in a place that "Snowbirds" ran away from every winter. I was determined to live there all year 'round. Maine or Massachusetts or Vermont or New Hampshire … somewhere unspoiled and wild and beautiful that still boasted fresh air and sunshine and the changing leaves in autumn, and piney-smelling woodsy places; up there where I could be an old country doctor and make a difference again, leg or no leg. Someplace where I might cultivate a few friends and continue to work on changing my negative attitude: make up in some way for failing my parents.

And I did not want to be alone for the rest of my life …

By the time I finished my imaginary walkthrough of the Kentucky house and decided that I must sell it, I had calmed down to manageable levels emotion-wise. The backpak was stocked with clothing for my trip, and I had added my laptop and its charger, plus the charger for my cell phone and a few cigars thrown into the front pocket just-in-case. And the cane still stuck out the top. (I should soon get rid of it, maybe …)

I trundled my suitcases to the area near the door and left them where I wouldn't stagger into them. It was getting late, and I still had to shower and order something to eat. I wouldn't have time in the morning. My leg was cramping from being in the same position so long. I took two Vicodin, grabbed clean underwear and rolled across the floor into the bathroom.

Hot water loosened my muscles and I luxuriated in the warmth while allowing a few more tears go down the drain with the shower water. Afterward I called nighttime room service and ordered a hamburger basket with French fries and a Coors Light Silver Bullet to top it off. It was almost 2:00 a.m.

When I finished, the steward picked up the cart and the tray, and I tipped the guy ten bucks. I was tired and achy again; washed out from the unaccustomed shock of powerful emotions I was still trying to sweep under the rug.

Mom and Thomas were dead. Period. Dead. Not: "gone to a better place". Not: "gone to meet Jesus", and not: "passed away". Dead. We had not had the chance to say goodbye, and I had to find a way to live with that. I pushed the wheelchair into a corner and got into bed; pulled up the covers. It didn't take long before I dropped into a troubled sleep that paraded ghostly images through my mind for the remainder of the night …

I was in the lobby by 9:00 a.m. McIvers and Mason were standing behind the counter discussing a work sheet of some kind. I said 'good morning', propped my crutches against the desk and prepared to check out. They looked at me strangely, likely surprised that I was leaving abruptly without prior notice. Actually it was none of their business, and all I had to do was ask for my refund and depart.

After my room service bills and laundry bills were added up, McIvers refunded a total of $175.00, which I shoved in my pocket. "I need someone to take two suitcases back to my car, please. And I want to say thank you for the help your people gave me. I appreciated it very much. I'll be in the restaurant having a cup of coffee. Here's my car keys. Your steward can return them to me there."

By the time I turned and hitched myself away toward the restaurant, Mason was already on the phone.

The noon flight to Lexington was on time.

There were no passport checks, no unusual inspections, no snarly female security guards. My luggage was in the trunk, and my Dynasty was parked in Newark's long-term lot in the handicap section. I had my keys and the claim check and I was set. I had no idea when I'd be back to pick up the car.

The attendant wheeled me to my seat on the plane and folded the wheelchair between the rows. The man asked if I was comfortable. My leg hurt, but I told him I was fine. I had the Vicodin in the backpak beside me if I needed them.

Shortly after we were in the air, a female attendant walked up to me with a pillow which she offered with a smile. I nodded my thanks and lifted my leg on the seat so she could place it beneath my knee.

"You looked a little uncomfortable, and we can't have that," she said. "Is there anything I can get you? Are you in pain?"

I smiled sweetly in response. She was a cutie. "No," I said. "And yes … in that order. But nothing I can't handle. Thanks for asking. I'm fine."

My old instincts were raising their lecherous heads. She was giving me a very nice view from above and she didn't even realize it. She was also young enough to be my daughter.

"If there's anything I can do for you, please ask. By the way, I like your fancy red crutches. You must have a good sense of humor."

Dammit, she was playing hell with my blood pressure. "That's the idea," I said. "Throws people off the track."

She nodded and stood, a little unsure of my meaning. The view of her cleavage went away and so did my pleasurable palpitations.

I watched her rhythmic retreat down the aisle.

The plane landed at 1:38 p.m. I guessed we'd had a tail wind.

The same male attendant who brought me aboard also took me off. I told him I was meeting someone out front, so we went there and he stayed with me while I waited.

Ten minutes later a very highly polished, very black Mercedes Benz pulled up in front of us.

The window slid down. A cherubic face decorated with black-rimmed bifocals and a Tom-Selleck mustache, called out to me:

"Gregory, my boy … you're here! What in the world has happened to you? Let me get out and give you a hand!"

Luther Finn. All 365 pounds of him!

I didn't answer right away, but I did reach out to shake his hand. The pained look I saw in his eyes belied every negative opinion I'd ever had about him. But it did confirm the one thing I most hated to see on the faces of those who dared look at me like that: honest, pained sympathy..

I swallowed hard and looked up. "I got older, Luther. My leg took a turn for the worse. Don't look at me like that … please. Actually, other than that, and the fact that my mom is dead, I'm fine. Not fine as in fine … but fine as in: you don't have to worry about me …"

He fussed and fluttered about like an old woman. He touched my shoulders, my arms; and he bossed the airline attendant around as though the young man didn't know what he was doing. I'm sure the kid had run into his share of fussy old men before, and he treated Luther with silent respect. He saw me roll my eyes once and smiled at me and winked. I grinned back. He stowed my backpak in the trunk, rattling stuff around back there.

They both assisted me in maneuvering from the wheelchair to the front seat of the Mercedes, as though I was made of glass. I bit my tongue and kept quiet. The car was cool and I could hear the A/C as it hummed away. When I was settled, I touched the kid's sleeve. He looked at me in question and I pressed a twenty into his palm. His smile widened and he nodded in understanding. "You take care, sir," he said. He grasped the wheelchair by both handles and disappeared with it into the terminal.

Luther drove us the four or five miles back to Lexington, going on and on about the details of mom's and Thomas's funerals and legacies, and his vivid memories of their ceremonies. Some of it was a repeat of words we'd had on the phone, so I sat and pretended to listen and nodded my head during what I deemed to be appropriate intervals. Everything he said was a new source of hurt …

It was difficult to hear elaborate descriptions of flower-draped caskets and Luther's evaluations of the friends, neighbors and acquaintances that walked past them in tribute. Human rituals, I decided, like the ceremony of Dad's funeral: showcases for officials who wanted to be seen paying their respects, but who didn't like John House any more than I did.

I, however, paid more attention to what Luther didn't say. As I'd already known, both recent funerals had to have been bereft of family. My parents had few immediate family still living. Both were the last of the line. Other than that, I was clueless. I wasn't sure about Thomas, but I had known he was a lifelong bachelor, and childless.

Luther avoided mentioning the glaring absence of Blythe's crippled son, and as I said, there was some significance to that in the things he _didn't_ say.

The law offices of _Finn, Gladsburg, Stein and Loftus_ was located on Main Street near Cheapside Park. We entered the city on Man O'War Boulevard, passing through one of the cleanest, neatest cities I'd ever seen. Rows of well-tended homes and wide streets with historic-looking buildings rolled by as Luther brought us closer to the area of the downtown. People were out and about and traffic was lugging slowly in the outside lanes. It was an hour past noon now, and we were slowed to a crawl by cars and trucks ahead of us, lined up like ants at a picnic.

"Caught in a traffic jam a block from home base," Luther groused. "You have to live here to appreciate it. Can't expand the city outward or put in a bypass because of the ordinance for the horse farms. They have precedence. Always have. Actually, I won't represent any conglomerate that wants to fight it … but it sure makes a labyrinth of this town sometimes."

I had no idea what he was talking about. I listened because I was a prisoner in this metal box on wheels, and because my leg pain was ramping up and I didn't want Luther to see. So I tensed my shoulders and bit my lip and hoped he wouldn't notice.

Finally! Luther put on the brakes and flipped the right turn signal.

We made a sharp turn into an underground parking garage that faced the street. I hadn't even noticed what the building overtop of us looked like. This place was at least as cavernous as the one at PPTH, and the tires screeched just as loudly on the smooth concrete. He pulled into a parking space and shut off the ignition.

"Well, here we are. I would like you to sit still, Greg. I know you're in pain and I need you to wait until I get the wheelchair out of the trunk." He gave me a stern, no-nonsense look before opening his door to unfold himself from the front seat. The car door snuffed shut as though closing on a vacuum.

 _*Oh crap!*_

I decided that it would be difficult to get anything past this old bruiser, so I said nothing and waited.

The trunk lid went up; the wheelchair clanked out and hit the floor with a loud bang when it snapped open, resounding like a rifle shot in the cavernous garage. There were some further sounds from back there before the trunk slammed down again with a thump that produced another reverberation. I winced.

 _*Jesus, Luther!*_

He assisted me out of the car with hands as gentle as a woman's. Made sure I was seated as comfortably as possible. Handed me the backpak and the crutches and rolled me across from the car to an elevator I hadn't noticed before. I'd probably been here as a kid, but I didn't recall much.

"Are you having the rest of your luggage sent here by messenger?" Luther inquired casually.

"No," I said. "For the short length of time I'll be here, I didn't see the need."

He stopped dead in his tracks. Eyes wide, mouth open. "Oh, dear boy … I thought you knew … the processing of this will and its subsequent legal formalities … they can take months!"

I gawked up at him and my leg twitched in agony. My eyes and mouth were gapped open even wider than his.

"Oh … fuck!

"Sorry …"

I counted three floors before the elevator stopped with a ding. The doors parted and we were facing a wide corridor with large corporate offices along both sides. It was vaguely familiar, but I decided it must have been modernized greatly during the past forty years. Luther turned us to the right and we halted a few steps later before a door marked with his own corporate logo.

" _LAW OFFICES OF FINN, GLADSBURG, STEIN AND LOFTUS."_

 _*And so it begins.*_

I suddenly wished I was back on Barbados … where life was a lot simpler …

153


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

"Surprise of the Century"

LUTHER FINN, ATTOURNEY AT LAW, REMINDS ME OF WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT. HE ALWAYS DID.

WE'VE KNOWN EACH OTHER A LONG TIME, LUTHER AND ME. I REMEMBER SITTING IN HIS OFFICE WITH MY PARENTS WHEN I WAS A KID. MY DAD WAS STATIONED AT FORT KNOX THEN, AND I WAS CONSTANTLY UNDER HIS GLOWERING SCRUTINY, SO I DID NOT SNICKER AT LUTHER'S BULK, OR HIS PRODIGIOUS MUSTACHE; NOR WAS I RUDE IN ANY WAY. BUT I WAS TOTALLY FASCINATED BY THE CIRCUMFERENCE OF HIS GIRTH. IT WAS SERIOUSLY EMANCIPATED.

LIKE THE SLAVES AFTER THE CIVIL WAR … AND YOU CAN MAKE OF THAT WHAT YOU WISH …

LUTHER'S MAHOGANY DESK WAS SET APPROXIMATELY DEAD CENTER IN HIS SPACIOUS OFFICE, JUST AS IT HAD BEEN IN MY VERY YOUNG MEMORY: THREE CLIENT CHAIRS IN FRONT, BARRISTER BOOK-CASES AGAINST THE WALL BEHIND. HUGE BURGANDY LEATHER SOFA AND ARM CHAIR ACROSS THE ROOM. THERE WAS A MINI FRIDGE AND SNACK BAR ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE LARGE OPEN SPACE, AND PLENTY OF ROOM TO MANEUVER. GOD KNEW HE NEEDED EVERY INCH. WHEN I WAS ELEVEN, I CALLED HIM "WILLY THE WHALE", MUCH TO THE DISMAY OF MY MOTHER.

When I saw that huge man leaning out the driver's window of the big car at the airport in Lexington, all the smartass thoughts I used to have about 'Willy the Whale' came rushing back. Never mind that I was in town due to the deaths of my mother and stepfather. I felt the urge to giggle behind my laced fingers as I had done when I was eleven. I had to bite my lip to stem the impulse.

Luther Finn was much older now. He was grayer. Most of his hair had gone the way of the dinosaur, and his glasses were thicker. He hadn't lost any of the weight. In fact, he might have gained some.

For a few moments I experienced déjà vu in spades. Visions of 'then' and 'now' metamorphosed before my eyes and inside my brain.

I blinked and the room blended back into a single picture. Luther was saying something …

He was backed up against his desk. His meaty fingers were twisting together in acute embarrassment, and I came to the realization that he was apologizing to me, for Pete's sake.

"… and I'm so sorry for continuing to stare at you. I know I need to put my confusion away once and for all before you become angry with me for not minding my own business. But you are so thin, Greg. When we met at your father's funeral a few years ago, you were looking healthy and walking fairly well with a cane. I'm so sorry I can't let it go. I want you to know that anything I can possibly do to make this trip easier for you, I'll go to any lengths …"

"Luther … please. It's not as bad as it looks. A week ago I flew home from a year in Barbados. I was tired, and I hadn't eaten much, and I had a lot of things to take care of when I got back. I haven't had enough sleep, I still have some jet lag, I think … and then I found out about Mom and Thomas, and I can't seem to get beyond it. It's making me crazy, and sometimes my leg reacts to what's going on in my head.

"I flew down here on short notice, and I'm still tired and washed out. I know I look like I'm on my last legs. I _feel_ terrible. Now I find out that this process will take a long time, and my luggage is in the trunk of my car, and my car is in the long-term lot at the Newark airport. I assure you, when I've had some time to recover and get back into some sort of circadian rhythm, I won't look like something being dragged behind a pickup truck. The leg is the leg, and there's nothing to be done about it. I'm older, and it hates me. I'm learning to work around it because I have no choice."

Luther stood and stared at me, every contour of his face lined with doubt. He looked like a fretful cherub. I gave him the full force of my most charming smile … and he picked the bullshit out of the air like he would pick a morsel of broccoli from between his teeth.

"You sound very convincing," he said. "But I know when I'm being hustled, eh?"

I sighed and nodded. He had called my bluff very easily. He probably remembered what I had been like as a kid. "Just so you know," he continued, "I know when you're bullshitting me. You are not well. I can tell that just to look at you. You will rest while you are here … and take care of yourself. I will see to it that this process will be as easy on you as possible."

There came a sudden rap at the door.

"Come on in, Willy," Luther said.

The door opened and a very tall, well-appointed African American man walked in, nodded to me and moved over to stand stiffly beside the desk with Luther.

I parried my attention a little nervously between them. The big guy looked very formidable, and I speculated for a moment whether he and Luther were wearing wires. It seemed to me that he knew precisely when to come to the door. I shifted in the chair, squeezed my thigh and glowered.

 _*Who's hustling who here?*_

"Greg," Luther said, "I want you to meet Willy Ortiz, who is the firm's head of security. Willy, this is Gregory House, the man I've been telling you about. He's the son of John and Blythe House and the stepson of Thomas Bell."

Ortiz raised both eyebrows and grinned. The gesture transformed him from a security guard to a running back for the Cincinnati Bengals. His dark-bronze face broke apart in the middle and I saw a row of perfect white teeth that would have done credit to Denzel Washington.

"So you're Dr. House," he said. "It's nice to finally meet you, and I'm really sorry it has to be under these circumstances." We shook hands and he stepped back again. "Mr. Finn and Mr. Loftus tried everything they could think of to get in touch with you, but every clue led to a dead end. Dr. Foreman and his staff had no idea where you might be. We were desperate enough to begin checking airlines and cruise lines and international police when you called."

"Thank you," I said, thinking to myself that the persona of Greg House had already submerged himself into Kyle Calloway by then, leaving another dead end. I let it ride. Instead: "It was a shock to find out they'd died within months of each other. The last time I spoke to Mom, they were getting ready to go on vacation to Scotland. At least they had that."

"We went in with a crew to clean the house after her funeral," Luther added, "dispose of everything perishable. We gathered their paperwork from the safe and the desk, and made up an itemized list. But only you have access to the safety deposit boxes. We decided against getting a court order. Everything is waiting for you."

"I appreciate everything you've done," I said. "Since my leg went downhill, I've turned into pretty much of a recluse. I have chronic pain, and I don't like people to witness it. I did some island hopping and tried to rest for a year. I thought I might be able to walk with my cane again, but it just hasn't happened. Now I'm home just in time to find out my mother and her husband are gone … and …"

Further words would not come; every utterance on my part felt repetitive. I turned to stare out the window.

Luther came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. "We have an idea that might work for you, Greg."

I looked up, questioning. When had they had the time? (Never mind … somehow I knew they were connected like the Secret Service to the President.)

"Suppose Willy were to fly back to Newark, pick up your car and drive it down here. Two days at the outside. And suppose, instead of checking into a hotel, you moved into your parents' house … temporarily. The utilities are still hooked up, and you would have all the privacy you need. At the same time, Willy and I would be just a phone call away if you need us. Would you like some time to think about it?"

I sighed. Shrugged.

 _*Ah hell … moving in with the spooks and goblins. Mom and Dad's ghosts would get to meet all_ _ **my**_ _ghosts …*_

I shrugged again and shook my head. "Sounds okay to me. Do either of you know if there's any of my dad's Kentucky Bourbon stashed away somewhere?"

That night, after dinner, they drove me to The House. We entered by the front door where there was only one step up. I was too tired and too sore to notice. Willy and Luther waited for me until I showered and medicated and made myself ready for bed.

Lazily I sat propped against the pillows in the housekeeper's quarters as they explained their plans for the following day. I dug the keys and parking permit for the Dynasty out of the backpak and handed them to Willy, who pocketed them in turn. He was taken aback when I told him he would be driving an old Dodge Dynasty with hand controls.

"Don't make fun of my car!" I scolded him. "It looks and runs like new." (Not a word about my suicidal smashup or Vince's beautiful repair job).

When I became drowsy, they made to leave. My crutches and backpak were left on the wheelchair that they had pulled up near the bed in case I needed it during the night. Luther would come by to make us breakfast at nine in the morning, and Willy would hop a flight to Newark. When he returned with the Dynasty, they would help me get settled in. Then we would begin sorting through the mountain of legal documents and papers to probate the wills. It would be a tiring job, requiring hours of research and comparisons, and I had a sinking feeling that Luther would be doting on me like a nursemaid.

I sighed and sank into a deep sleep. I never heard them leave.

After breakfast the following morning, Luther and I shared the probate files across the kitchen table between us. Piles and piles of files and files. One of them was so thick that it looked like a manuscript for a novel by Stephen King. Paging through it, I discovered that it was a huge document with a complete listing of assets from the estate, and their estimated value. Nothing had been overlooked; even down to the food in the chest freezer in the basement and canned and jarred goods still in the kitchen pantry. There was even a list of items declared perishable and thrown away.

 _*Holy shit!*_

It took about three hours of undivided concentration just to sort everything into categories. The house was full of mementoes accumulated over many years of Mom and Dad's marriage, and even more stuff added to it when she and Thomas Bell married and he added his numerous possessions to the whole.

About halfway through, I began to realize the extent of their resources, and why Luther had been so frantic to get in touch with me. He'd been left with an entire double-estate lying in limbo. His firm would have had to spend time searching for even the most distant relatives of both families, which might have taken months, and eaten up much of the assets. It would have been a nightmare. No wonder he was so glad to see me, and why he was treating me with kid gloves. He needed me to live long enough to relieve him of all that fucking responsibility. It was funny in a way, but ultimately sad in the long run.

When we had finally gone through the entire pile of lists and affidavits and legal rigamarole, and Luther had briefed me on all the hoops I must jump through to collect my rightful inheritance, I 'affixed my signature' a hundred times. At least it seemed that way. Luther stuffed the intimidating stack of papers into his huge briefcase to file later, as proof that I had read them, understood them and accepted them.

(Hahahahahaha …) I "understood" nothing! Not a freakin' word.

He slid a legal-size manila envelope across the desk. In it were savings passbooks, now transferred to my name. There were three individual retirement accounts and three Roth IRAs. Four automobile titles, deeds to three cemetery plots, a deed to eighteen acres of woodland in upper New York State, a past-due bill from the funeral home in Lexington, one from the cemetery, a bill from Finn, Gladsburg, Stein and Loftus, and the deed to the house in which we were sitting. I was beginning to feel a bit like John D. Rockefeller, Jr.

I thought of Alan Rance Packard, Jr. and had to smile in fond remembrance. Packy would have laughed his ass off at the irony …

I was into something much more intricate than I'd ever imagined. I always knew my parents were frugal and seldom spent their money foolishly, and I knew that Thomas Bell was a man of great means. What I didn't know, however, was the fact that together they had amassed a legacy far beyond my wildest imagination. Not that I'd ever have asked questions or pried into their affairs. I made a good living of my own and couldn't have cared less about their means of managing theirs …

… and then Dad died and Mom had the house and all their accumulated paraphernalia from all over the globe … and Thomas Bell came along … well, maybe not 'came along', since he was already there … but … _Jesus Mighty!_

And so on and et cetera and ad infinitum …

Amid all the sadness and regret at their passing, there was a riotous amount of macabre humor running around in my head. The ridiculousness of it all; the legal rigamarole and tongue-twisting sentences that made my hair hurt and my teeth itch. I couldn't bring myself to expend the effort to translate it to any semblance of comprehensible phrasing … and I cared even less. So I set that secret switch that everyone has in their heads, and turned it off.

Finally, most of it was signed and legal and stuffed into the Pony Express pouch, so to speak. There was another document on the table in front of me providing for transfer of utilities and other miscellaneous items that would accrue after the inheritance had been transferred to the heir and the grace period had passed. I signed it, agreeing to pay any outstanding accumulations.

 _*Why the hell not!? Not like I can't afford it …*_

The statements of value transferred to my name caused my jaw to drop when I read the amounts. The house had been appraised at $950,000 and the land in New York at $120,000. The furniture and major appliances were worth another $25,000 on the used market. (At auction they would likely bring more, Luther said.) Mom owned some Victorian and antique jewelry that had been passed down from her family, plus some pieces of her own. It was worth more than $200,000. Guns, military artifacts, tools, maintenance equipment and antiques I never knew existed, added up to $162,000. Thomas had a stamp collection to which he contributed from time to time, and kept in a separate safety deposit box. At current market value it was worth over $250,000. The rest of his estate, over and above my mother's, had been appraised at just over a half-million bucks.

 _*Ahhhhhhh …*_

In addition, four vehicles were in the garage in the basement: Dad's silver Dodge Ram 1500, Thomas' Porsche Panamera, Mom's Toyota Avalon, and a well-preserved Willys Jeep, circa 1940 that I had never seen. They were low mileage (except for the Jeep) and the total value was almost $200,000, depending on the current market.

 _*Sheee-itt!_

As it turned out, Luther explained, there were two other savings accounts and another retirement account located at another bank, with a total value of a half-million dollars.

I was getting a headache.

Mentally adding up everything, watching the numbers blast off toward the moon, I looked across at Luther Finn, whose 'William Howard Taft' belly was jiggling as he chuckled at the blank look on my face. My leg was beating an achy accompanying rhythm in time with my blood pressure. This was getting ridiculous.

"Oh. My. God! They were millionaires. How did they do it? I had no idea."

"Yup," Luther grunted. "They were. Your father and Mr. Bell were canny investors. I believe they were wealthier than even they realized. They put their money in the bank every month and the interest built. As you will notice, there are two passbooks that haven't been touched in years. I think they forgot about them. And now you will reap the benefits, dear boy."

He drew a deep breath and continued to smile at me with the giddy sort of expression one might see on the face of a Koala Bear cub. "Is there anything of the common assets you can think of that you definitely want to keep? Such as the vehicles? Furnishings? Antiques or tools and the like?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat and attempted to talk. All that came out was a flurry of barely distinguishable words that made no sense, even to me. Luther was laughing out loud, a merry, jolly sound that had me smiling in spite of myself. "You think this is hilarious, don't you?!" I grumbled.

"Yeah," he said between chuckles. "I do. You're mortified. You're also afraid this is a dream. Your face is pale as a ghost, and you don't act like any other brand-new millionaire I've ever met. I hope you don't mind if I enjoy your bewilderment for a few more moments ..."

"Nah … I don't mind. You're good for what ails me, Luther. You make me feel messed up in a good way when I'm around you. I appreciate it."

"I thank you, my boy. Likewise. And you didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"What is it among all this accumulation that you would wish to keep?"

 _*Oh yeah …*_

"Well … I think I want the family portraits and photo albums for sure. Mom's piano and her wedding and engagement rings … and Dad's wedding ring. I'd like to keep them in my sock drawer … when I get a sock drawer again somewhere. Maybe Thomas's too.

"And there's someone back on Barbados who could make good use of Dad's pickup truck. Maybe I'll find some odds and ends later, but that's all I can think off right now."

"And that's _all_?" Luther asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I think so. The rest of it can be liquidated … like an estate sale or something along that line. Could your firm handle that? I know nothing about this stuff, and you do. Could you do it?"

"Willy Ortiz has vast experience in liquidating property. He would be the man you want. He has already departed for Newark, so you can ask him tomorrow when he gets here with your car. Now it is time for us to do a walk-through of your folks' house. Are you up for it? Is your _leg_ up for it?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I think so. But I can't do steps, so we're kind of limited to one floor. It will be good to get out of this chair awhile though. My arse has gone numb …"

We did the walk-through. There were boxes and boxes of boxes full of boxes. Odd pieces of furniture piled upon one another. Two beds in the guest bedroom upended … and more boxes jammed into boxes. There wasn't much laying out that we could actually count or go through. We looked over the ground floor quickly and returned to the kitchen.

 _*What a freakin' mess this is gonna be!*_

"Could you drink a cup of coffee, Greg?"

"Huh? Oh … I sure could. May I impose on you to bring my backpak out of the bedroom? My leg hurts like hell, and it's time I took some meds before it gets worse …"

He paled. "I'm sorry. I was thoughtless about that. Of course I'll go get it. Hang on …" He was flustered about not having thought about retrieving medicine that was _my_ responsibility. I'd have to talk to him about that. Reminding me of my absent-mindedness was not up to him.

When he returned with the backpak, I dug out my Vicodin and took two pills. He watched me throw back my head and dog-swallow them. "Are you in a lot of pain, Greg?"

"Yeah … but some of it is coming from the jumble of stuff churning around in my head right now. As I said, sometimes one thing feeds off another. As soon as my head stops spinning from the events of the past few days, the better my leg will behave. Hopefully. Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

He was still frowning. From smiling cherub to fretful grandfather; Luther was a bundle of emotion today just as I was. (And I hated like hell for my feelings to show on my face.)

"It's better, Luther. The pills are starting to work". (Liar!)

"Okay," he said. "Now how about that pot of coffee?"

"You have my vote," I said.

And we laughed. But it was strained.

 _*Mom is dead …*_

161


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

"Just Call Me 'Your Majesty'"

WILLY ORTIZ ARRIVED WITH THE DYNASTY ABOUT TEN A.M. THE NEXT DAY. HE MUST HAVE CALLED LUTHER ON HIS WAY INTO TOWN, BECAUSE HE CAME STRAIGHT OUT HERE TO THE HOUSE. I WAS PUTTERING AROUND IN THE KITCHEN IN MY SWEATS, BREWING A POT OF COFFEE, HAULING OUT THE TOASTER FROM BENEATH THE COUNTER AND TRYING TO MAKE THE LEAST AMOUNT OF MESS AS POSSIBLE.

I HEARD THE CAR PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY … THERE'S NO MISTAKING THE SOUND OF A K-CAR … AND I KNEW HE WAS HERE. I CLOMPED OVER TO THE DOOR AND UNLOCKED IT SO HE WOULDN'T HAVE TO DIG AROUND FOR HIS KEY.

"YOU'RE JUST IN TIME FOR COFFEE," I SAID. HE STOOD ON THE THRESHOLD WITH MY SUITCASES GRIPPED IN HIS HANDS AND A MORNING PAPER CLAMPED BETWEEN HIS TEETH. "YOU REMIND ME OF THE DOG MY MOM USED TO HAVE," I SAID. "OL' BAXTER CARRIED A NEWSPAPER THE SAME WAY YOU DO …" I FIGURED A SMARTASS REMARK WAS THE SHORTEST AVENUE OF RAPPORT BETWEEN US.

HE SET THE SUITCASES DOWN AND REMOVED THE PAPER FROM HIS MOUTH. "BETTER WATCH YOUR TONGUE THERE, HOPALONG," HE GROUSED WITH A HALF-GRIN. "I'VE BEEN DRIVING ALL NIGHT AND I DIDN'T COME OVER HERE TO BE INSULTED."

"WELL, YOU BETTER BE NICE TO THE POOR CRIPPLE, OR HE'LL HIDE YOUR FAVORITE COFFEE MUG." I HOPPED BACK AND OPENED THE DOOR ALL THE WAY SO HE COULD GET AROUND BOTH ME AND THE DOOR. "HOW WAS THE TRIP? ANY PROBLEMS?"

WILLY SHOOK HIS HEAD. "NAH. YOUR CAR IS A HOOT TO DRIVE, AND COMFORTABLE, SURPRISINGLY. IT WAS A PRETTY GOOD RUN AND I MADE DECENT TIME. AFTER I HAVE A CUP OF YOUR COFFEE, I'LL PUT YOUR SUITCASES IN YOUR ROOM AND GO OUT AND HAVE A GO AT REINSTALLING THE HAND CONTROLS. I REMOVED THEM AND PUT THEM IN THE TRUNK BECAUSE THEY WERE IN MY WAY. MY ASS ISN'T QUITE AS SKINNY AS YOURS, AND UNLIKE YOU, BOTH MY LEGS ACTUALLY WORK."

HE SMILED AND LOOKED AROUND AT THE PILES OF FURNITURE AND BOXES. "WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE MESS WE MADE OF YOUR HOUSE?"

"MY MOM ALWAYS DECORATED THE PLACE WITH CARDBOARD BOXES," I SHOT BACK. "SO IT LOOKS ABOUT THE SAME TO ME. AND IT'S NOT MY HOUSE …"

He chuckled. "So … Greg … Luther tells me the amount of your inheritance kind of knocked you on your behind. Things looking a little better this morning?" He flopped the newspaper on top of the counter and removed his jacket.

I nodded. "Mox Nix," I said. "By the time I pay all the inheritance taxes and the other stuff, I'll probably come out about even." The coffee pot clicked off and I prepared to pour us each a healthy cupful. "Actually, I've been trying not to think about it much. I'm still blown away by the bundle my folks managed to squirrel away just during my lifetime. I had no clue. And then Thomas Bell came along and about doubled it. I'm thinking the best way for me to handle the windfall is to ignore it or give most of it away …"

"I like your attitude, Greg. Sometimes when people inherit a lot of money, they go wild and end up in a peck of trouble. You sound like you're going to be okay with it."

I snorted a burst of ironic laughter and then shrugged. "I always thought that if I ever won the lottery or something, I wouldn't know how the hell to handle it. Money, per se, doesn't impress me much these days. It just bugs the hell out of me. Big money means big responsibilities. That bugs me too. But I guess I'll soon find out, won't I?"

"I guess you will." We raised our coffee cups and toasted the concept.

Luther arrived about twenty minutes later. He brought a box of donuts with him, which he placed in the middle of the counter and opened the lid. I poured him a steaming cup; ran the water for another pot. We each took a donut and stood munching earnestly.

"How'd you sleep last night, Greg? Did your leg tame down after I left?"

"Don't know if it tamed down or not. I was sleeping so soundly, I didn't notice."

"Smartass …" he grumbled.

Willy laughed out loud.

Luther reached to his inside coat pocket and pulled out a legal-size envelope, which he handed across to me.

I scowled. "What's this?"

"Take a look ..." he teased.

I lifted the flap and looked inside. It was a cashier's check in the amount of $900,000. I gulped. Couldn't help it. Both my legs wanted to buckle beneath me and I had to grab onto the counter to remain upright.

"Holy shit! Is this for real?"

They were both poised to grab me, but I recovered and got the crutches back beneath me.

"It's for real, Greg. And that's only part of it. After probate and after the estate sale … providing you still want us to arrange one … there will be a lot more. Don't forget there are two safe-deposit boxes we haven't checked yet."

I placed the check very carefully on the counter before me and continued to study it. "Oh yeah … I do want a sale. I have no use for this house or much of anything that goes with it. It's too big for one person, and I can't navigate it. Can I deposit this check in the same bank that issued it? It would seem to make the most sense."

"Absolutely. In your name only?"

"Yeah. I have no spouse … no dependents. No brothers or sisters. No parents either …"

For a few moments I was overwhelmed again. I lowered my head and looked to the side, willing my damned eyes to remain dry. I had embarrassed and humiliated myself in front of two men who had never showed me anything but friendship and support. "I'm sorry," I said. "This whole experience is kicking the hell out of me. Really sorry …"

"I hope you soon run out of apologies, man," Willy said. "You're going to fool around and make yourself sick. Here …" He shoved the half-empty doughnut box across the counter. "Have another donut! Your skinny ass could certainly use another one."

I had to laugh. Half pissed off and half grateful for his response, I picked up another donut and took a big bite of it. "Here's to bitchy cripples and smartass running backs …"

Back on track, we returned to the business of depositing the big cashiers' check.

I took myself over by the window and pulled out one of the chairs at the table. I sat down in it and laid the crutches on the floor beside me. Luther and Willy picked up our coffee cups and followed. Luther had the check in hand. He placed it and a pen before me, pulled out another chair and sat down. Across from him Willy did the same. We all looked at each other.

"Want to sign this now and request a withdrawal? I must file the probate papers, and I can stop by the bank if you'd rather not come along. I can take care of it quickly. I've had a lot of experience."

His face was anxious as he looked at me. I took a long draught of coffee and faced him squarely. "I'd like to go along with you, if that's okay. I'll wait in the car while you take care of business, but after that, I need to stop by the cemetery where my folks are buried …"

Luther's eyebrows went up and his face relaxed visibly. I'd surprised him with the request, but I also believed he was willing to accommodate me in any manner he could. In that moment a subtle change took place. We were becoming less and less lawyer and client, and more like friends. I could almost feel the shift in the air between us.

"I'd be honored to take you there, Greg. They're all together at Bluegrass Memorial Gardens where your dad was buried. You've been there before. We can leave anytime."

"I should go back to my room and change into something presentable then," I said.

As I spoke, Willy got up and walked around the island to where the two suitcases stood in the middle of the floor. "I'll take these back for you," he said. "You might want to wear something out of them."

I thanked him and clomped along behind him. He set both suitcases on the end of the bed and departed, closing the door behind him.

I changed quickly as I could and ran the beard trimmer. My leg hurt and my foot was tender. It took me a minute to put on clean socks. The fresh jeans and blue sport shirt were easier. I laced up a blue Nike sneaker on my left foot. I was ready in fifteen minutes … really fast for me!

When I returned to the kitchen, they were waiting. I signed the check and pushed it across to Luther, who looked at me like a doctor making a diagnostic. "I'm fine," I assured him.

He grunted disapproval, but did not comment. "Do you want to make a withdrawal?" He asked. "The bank will be happy to work with you. The inheritance account has been idle for over a year. Your first withdrawal as a brand new millionaire …" He chuckled and his belly wiggled.

I coughed to keep from sniggering. "Cash withdrawal, huh? How about a thousand bucks … see if they have enough to cover it …"

They both scowled at me, and Luther quickly scribbled down some figures.

Willy backed the Dynasty out around the corner so he would have room to get me into the Mercedes. I insisted that Luther ride in front so I could stretch out my leg on the back seat. He nodded quickly and opened the back door so I could slide in easily. After that was accomplished, he hefted his large body into the front beside Willy. I let a look pass between us; acknowledgement and thanks on my part and a certain air of fatherly satisfaction on his. "We aim to please," he joked. "We don't take chances with our millionaire clients, you know."

"Wonderful," I grunted sarcastically. "I'll tell your millionaire clients when I see them."

As we pulled out onto the street, Luther reached for his cell phone and called the bank. Whoever he was talking to, seemed more than enthusiastic for the call. He talked for less than a minute, and when he was finished I saw a look of satisfaction and relief spread across his face … like both emotions were having a race to see which was most happy to be there.

His business at the bank took very little time. We waited, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes until he appeared again and got back into the car. He had a paper cash envelope in his hand, plus a temporary check book and deposit slips that he handed to me over the back of the seat. "Probate papers are filed, and here is your cash, and your first check book and deposit slips. The ones with your name imprinted on them will be mailed by the end of the week. Enjoy!"

I reminded him that my residence at Mom and Dad's house was only temporary. I did not want to live in Kentucky … nothing against the commonwealth though. I didn't tell them, but I'd already settled my sights on New England.

We arrived next at Bluegrass Memorial Gardens. The area was gated, but the gates were never closed. Meticulously trimmed hedges rimmed the boundaries of the property, and a graveled roadway led between rows of grave markers, some of which dated back to the eighteenth century.

Willy drove the big car through the gates slowly, turning to the right and up a slight incline dotted with evergreens and dogwood trees. At the top of the incline he pulled the car off to the right and parked in an area that was free of obstruction. We sat and looked over the row of graves for a moment. It was silent. More silent than I would have believed. My disregard for religious ritual had nothing to do with the reverence of my companions. I kept my mouth shut and followed their example. Willy got out first. He walked around the back of the car and opened the back door where my lame leg rested on the seat. Without a word, he reached across and grasped my hand. I slid out until my foot was safely on the ground. Willy handed me the crutches and cautioned: "Be careful, Greg."

I nodded. They flanked me, one on each side as we moved slowly toward the three graves nestled in a semicircle near a tall Loblolly Pine. They fell slightly behind me as I worked my way nearer to the small headstones. Nothing fancy as far as gravestones go. No engraved Bible verses or flowers chiseled from granite. Three names, six dates and a peaceful setting for three lives lived in interesting ways.

 _*Love you Mom. You too Dad, even if you were mostly a pain in my ass. And Thomas Bell … she loved you, so I've got no bone to pick with you. Rest in peace …*_

I stood as quietly as I could for what I thought was a respectful amount of time. Then I turned back and

stumbled across to the spot where Luther and Willy stood waiting patiently in silent respect.

165


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

"Getting the Ducks in Line"

WE HAD DINNER AT COUNTRY CUPBOARD, A BIG RESTAURANT I HAD VISITED BEFORE WITH MY MOM AND WILSON. LUTHER WAS ON THE PHONE AGAIN WHEN OUR MEAL WAS SERVED, BUT HE RANG OFF QUICKLY AS HIS VORACIOUS APPETITE OVERCAME HIS BUSINESS ACUMEN.

WE LINGERED LONG OVER THE MEAL AND THE EXCELLENT PIE AND COFFEE AT THE END. THE TOPIC OF CONVERSATION CENTERED ON THE ESTATE SALE AND THE BEST TIME TO SCHEDULE IT. SINCE WILLY WAS THE EXPERT IN THIS ENDEAVOR, HE TOOK THE LEAD IN THE DISCUSSION. I SAT AND LISTENED WHILE THE TWO OF THEM BATTED IDEAS BACK AND FORTH CONCERNING DATES AND TIMES. WILLY AND LUTHER AGREED THAT IT WOULD HAVE TO BE A TWO-DAY AFFAIR. THERE WAS JUST TOO MUCH TO TRY TO GET IT DONE IN A SINGLE DAY. I SHRUGGED WHEN ASKED FOR MY OPINION. "MAYBE THREE WOULD BE BETTER …" I GRUMBLED.

THEY STARED AT ME AS THOUGH I'D SUDDENLY GROWN ANOTHER HEAD. AFTER THAT THEY DIDN'T ASK FOR MY OPINION.

By the time we got back to the house, my ass was dragging, my head was pounding and my damn leg was throwing sparks. I had been so distracted during the day that I had not even taken my meds. I made up for it by taking enough to knock me for a loop.

Somehow I bluffed it out until they left about 9:00 p.m. I went to bed in my underwear and turned onto my side to grasp my cramping thigh. I was still awake at two o'clock. The worst of the pain finally eased sometime after that, but I was too spent to care. It was the last thing I remembered until daylight woke me for good and I heard someone moving in the kitchen.

I pulled on a pair of raggedy, scroungy cutoffs, hobbled to the wheelchair and plopped into it. Every muscle in my body felt like it had been pummeled by the welterweight champion of the world. I rolled into the bathroom and scooted across to the john. Niagara Falls. I hefted back to the chair and followed my avid curiosity to the kitchen to see who … or what … was rattling the pots and pans.

Willy was in a pair of old jeans, worn sneakers and a raggedy tee shirt. I paused at the end of the hallway and watched him. He didn't see me right away. He was cooking bacon in the oven, on cookie sheets lined with parchment paper … ve-r-r-ry slowly, and the aroma was tantalizing. My stomach rumbled. I rolled closer and he reacted to the movement in his peripheral vision.

Busted!

"Well! The caissons come rolling along. Good morning, Sunshine. Did you sleep well?"

Too late, I realized he was staring at my scar. Cutoffs on Barbados had been the norm, and Hooley saw the damned scar every day and never thought anything of it. I heard Willy hitch his breath and knew instantly that I'd screwed up. I made a face and instinctively shielded the area with my hand. But by then the barn door was open wide and the all the horses were gone. "I'm … sorry about that," I said. "I don't usually put this on display. I didn't exactly expect anyone to be here." (Which wasn't completely true.) I spun the chair back toward the bedroom to cover my Freudian slip ….

"Wait!"

The tone of his voice stopped me in my tracks.

"What?"

He could probably see the humiliation radiating off the top of my head.

"I was an Army Medic in Iraq and Afghanistan, Greg," he replied quietly. "I've seen it all. You don't have to run and hide. It's no wonder your wound has twisted you. That scar is kind of offputting, isn't it? But if I can look beyond it, you can too. Come on back and give me a hand with breakfast. Luther will soon be here. Okay? I just talked to him awhile ago ... and to be perfectly honest, we're both much more interested in the part of you that lies _above_ the waist than what's below it ..."

Reluctantly I turned back to face him. "So what can I do to help other than get in the way?"

"Greg … you sound like your father."

"Which one? The Marine? Or the one with the Highland Brogue?"

"John House, of course. He had the same fatalist attitude you have."

"You knew him, huh?" I was well aware that Willy was purposely switching the focus of the conversation and baiting me to ask him what he meant.

"Certainly I knew him," Willy shot back. "Quite well, in fact. He was a crusty, plain-talking Jarhead, your old man. He called me 'BlackQuack' and I called him 'McFuck' … when your mom wasn't around. We were good friends, and I miss him."

My inhibitions fled like cats with their tails on fire. I expelled a snort of laughter, and Willy glared at me. "You okay?"

I nodded. "I'm fine."

He stared at me, frowning. "I wonder how many times you've said that over the years. I've heard you use it a half-dozen times in the last two days."

"I say it a lot, I guess," I admitted. "It gets people off my back."

"No it doesn't. Count the times you thought you had to say it."

He laughed then; sardonic laughter that said flatly that I was full of shit. "If you say something in your own defense often enough, it just makes people hide and watch … especially the ones who've known you for any length of time … the ones who care about you."

My thoughts turned immediately back to Wilson: that meddling, demanding, anachronistic, pain-in-the-ass who had been my best friend. Every time I told Wilson I was fine, his meddling increased two-fold.

I hadn't seen it quite that way before.

 _*Ahhh … damn!*_

Luther couldn't have timed things more perfectly. The Mercedes pulled into the driveway when the eggs were ready to come out of the pan, the toast was warm and buttery, the coffee ready to be poured, and the bacon in all its aromatic glory lay popping and glistening on the platter.

When Luther walked in the door, he placed his briefcase on the counter and looked at me in silence. His immediate attention also turned to "The Scar of the Show". I knew I should have gone back and changed into jeans. His only comment: "You were mutilated beyond all humanity, weren't you, my boy? No wonder you've become bitter about it. How it is today? Are you feeling all right?"

I winced at his words, straightforward as they were. It was on the tip of my tongue to say: 'fine'. But I clamped down on it and tried to deflect instead. "It hurts. It always hurts, Luther. What do you say we sample some breakfast before you dial 911 … ?"

The three of us sat around Mom's kitchen table feasting on Willy's excellent breakfast in guarded silence. Over second cups of coffee, and still munching on leftover strips of bacon that lay cooling on the platter, the conversation lightened up with anecdotes about my parents. I listened with growing unease. It was like hearing stories about myself when they spoke of John House and his rigid, voluble ways. Some of it made me uncomfortable. For the first time ever, I had reason to relate to my father.

When my insecurities raised their ugly heads, I asked them why they'd bothered to befriend me, an irritable recluse who continually cast a black light on the world around him.

Both of them looked at me with raised eyebrows and knowing smiles. "You are very much like your father, my boy," Luther said. "But that's not a bad thing. He was a proud man. He had a strict code of honor that hung from his neck like a noose … as though he might be accused of being disloyal if he didn't keep it wrapped around him."

I raised my own eyebrows at that. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning ..."

"Really? Well, I remember that even as a boy you were a lot like him. Your facial expressions, your mannerisms … even the general curtness of your voice and the sarcasm … oh the sarcasm! But your biggest problem seems to be that you always want to run and hide your injury from the world. And that's impossible. Everyone who sees you knows immediately that you are disabled. You seem ashamed, but you shouldn't be. It is way beyond your control, don't you see?

"The biggest difference between you and John is the fact that, as a grown man, you are meticulously educated, and John was not. His education came from the life he led. The military, and his early upbringing, became as much a part of him as the Hippocratic Oath is a part of you."

I listened closely; still covering my scar and concentrating on what I was being told. Things I had never considered before filtered through my mind like a field mouse through buckwheat. Everything Luther said fit well with my biggest hang-up and the man I had grown up with and called "Dad". (Among other things …)

They told me about John's obsession with self-discipline and personal honor that guided his chosen pathway. Luther stressed that John House had often been at a loss how to handle a gifted son whose monumental intelligence often confused him to the point of distraction.

 _*You did what you thought was right, Dad. You were old-school … old-military … and I must have been a pain in your ass. In a way your method was sort of like: "My-Name-is-Sue-how-do-you-do?" You wanted me to be tough, and able to handle anything life threw at me. But you didn't reckon on the infarction … and what it did to me later … you didn't know how to treat me after that. I became more of a hard-ass than you ever were … just not in the same way. And the gulf between us widened. Sad thing was, we dragged Mom along with it. She couldn't choose between us, and now it's too late. I'm sorry. I'm trying to fix it … but it still hurts.*_

When I looked up from my mental excursion into the past, Luther and Willy were both looking at me with concern.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to go riding off into the sunset like the Lone Ranger … but I was reliving some of the stuff you were telling me about. I guess my Dad and I were more alike than we were different. I'll try to stop hiding my leg. I know there's nothing I can do about it …"

"Amen," Willy said. "How about we change the subject!"

Luther brought his briefcase over to the table, along with his coffee.

"I spoke with a man who owns a firm called 'General Resources', he said. "His name is Reginald Thackery and we've known each other a long time. He's reputable and his firm is based here in Lexington." Luther held up his hefty briefcase to emphasize his words. "His people specialize in estate sales. He told me this time of year is pretty well booked up. The next date they have available will be the seventeenth and eighteenth of October. If we don't mind the wait, they will be happy to handle your sale, Greg. What do you think?"

"That's almost two months away," I replied. "But it gives us plenty of time to go through everything and sort it out. Other than that, I don't know anything about the particulars of it. I can make arrangements to ship Mom's piano to my storage unit in Princeton … and check out what it will take to send Dad's Dodge pickup to Barbados. The rest is up to the two of you. I'll help the most by keeping out of your way and keeping track of inventory … save you some time."

"Good," Willy grumped. "We'll need all kinds of information when we sort stuff out … and you're the only one who has any clue at all where most of it came from, or any idea of its original value. You may find some stuff from your childhood that you'd like to hang onto. You never know. We'll have to bring in some appraisers … for Thomas's stamp collection and the old Jeep, for instance … your mom's jewelry … and John's military hardware and aviation souvenirs … that sort of thing. There are also two more safety deposit boxes that have to be gone through. You're the only one who has access, so if you're sitting in a corner somewhere counting the beans, I can keep track of you …"

I stared at him long and hard. Incredulous. I had no idea this multiple-party estate had so much to be accounted for. I was a babe-in-the-woods where all the intricate calculations were concerned. But I was willing to learn and also have something to occupy my mind.

I smiled foolishly and held up a hand in self-defense. "Just call me your willing slave …"

Willy snickered into his coffee. Even Luther smiled.

Two weeks passed quickly. Luther had business to attend to elsewhere with the law firm, but Willy and I began the task of inventorying everything that death had left behind in that very large, very empty-of-life house. There were ghosts from the past everywhere I looked.

Puffing from exertion, Luther Finn came in the back door one afternoon and leaned over the table where I was busy on the laptop with a new article for JAMA.

"Thackery called awhile ago, and I thought I should come over to talk to you. There has been a cancellation on an estate sale two weeks from tomorrow. Thackery wants to know if we'd like to move your sale ahead by a month. What do you think, Greg?"

I scratched my head and looked up at him. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Better tell Willy …"

Luther groaned.

It was a "go".

170


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

"Taking the Southern Route"

I FOUND WHAT I THOUGHT I WAS LOOKING FOR IN WEST PALM BEACH, FLORIDA …

A POSITION BECAME AVAILABLE AT A SMALL CANCER CENTER AND RESEARCH CLINIC ON FLAGLER DRIVE ACROSS THE BAY. I APPLIED ONLINE, TYPED UP A LIST OF SCHOLASTIC, COLLEGIATE AND WORK CREDENTIALS; PRINTED A HARD COPY, WROTE A COVER LETTER, AND MAILED IT OFF THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY.

TWO WEEKS LATER AN OFFICIAL LOOKING ENVELOPE ARRIVED AT THE APARTMENT AND I TORE IT OPEN WITH ENTHUSIASM.

INQUIRY: COULD I ARRIVE AT THE BUSINESS OFFICE OF PALM BEACH COUNTY CANCER RESEARCH CENTER AT SUCH-AND-SUCH A TIME ON SUCH-AND-SUCH A DATE FOR A FULL DAY OF TOURS AND INTERVIEWS?

COULD I?

YOU BET I COULD!

I flew into Palm Beach International on a Friday morning, prepared to give my best at the interview and spend the rest of the time enjoying the sun and the surf and the South Florida night life.

With a little luck I could turn the contact into a search for a clean apartment with jalousie windows, bamboo curtains and Terrazzo floors with area rugs woven from palm fronds. Maybe I could land a job and actually find a living space where I could turn around without knocking something over.

Coming off the air conditioned plane at PBI and walking full-force into the hot, humid air, I felt as though I were suffocating. South Central Florida in the middle of July is like a blast furnace to the uninitiated. My collar was instantly drenched and I could feel the wetness breaking out under both arms and down the middle of my back. Even my grip on the briefcase handle was soggy after thirty seconds.

In the terminal I retrieved my Eagle Creek 4-wheeler from the baggage carousel and went outside to look for a taxi. There were at least a dozen cabs of all descriptions queued up along the curb when I walked out there, all with ACs running and exhaust fumes turning the immediate area into a literal gas chamber. I walked up to the nearest cab and tapped on the driver's window. When the window came down, a fiery looking Cuban-ish woman gave me the evil eye.

"Where to?" She asked in a heavy Spanish accent.

"PBC Cancer Research Center, Flagler Drive, Palm Beach," I said.

"You … patient?"

"No. I … doctor."

She nodded and sneered and pulled a handle beneath the dashboard that popped the trunk. She got out of the car, grasped my 4-wheeler by the handle and heaved it into the opening as easily as if the thing was empty. The loud _'whump'_ when she slammed the trunk lid rocked the beat-up cab on its spongy shock absorbers.

"Git een," she said.

And I did. And buckled up. We roared out of the cab line like a rocket launch out of Cape Canaveral.

After a harrowing ride through town and across the causeway, she sluiced into an empty parking spot like the space shuttle docking. She popped the trunk again and pulled my Eagle Creek out onto the sidewalk while traffic careened around us up and down the street.

"Thir-tee-five doll-larr," was all she said as she held out her hand palm up.

I slapped a fifty on her and said: "Keep the change, Chiquitita … "

That was the only time her features softened into something quite pretty. "Gracias, Senor Dock-tor."

I nodded as I grabbed the handle of the carryall. "Dee-Nada."

I walked into the large waiting room of PBCCRC at precisely 3:00 p.m., dragging the 4-wheeler behind me and grasping my briefcase in the other hand.

It was bright and colorful in there, and the air conditioning felt like a slice of heaven. I pushed the carryall out of the way and walked across to the reception desk, pushing my damp hair off my forehead. To my left, a long corridor led off toward the rear of the building.

There were three other people sitting in chairs around the perimeter of the room, two of them with their noses buried in dog-eared magazines. The other woman looked up from time to time to watch the traffic in and out, or take a moment to check out the TV fastened to the wall in the corner.

The woman behind the reception counter across from me was probably about the same age as my mother. As I approached, I took note that her white hair was meticulously coiffed. Her makeup was so skillfully applied that I could hardly tell it was there, except that I knew it was. Her eyes, I noticed right away, were the same deep violet as Elizabeth Taylor's had been. Her blouse was pale lavender, which highlighted her eyes even more. I could not help staring. On her right lapel was a small white oval with the name "Patti" engraved in the middle. On her left lapel she wore a small pink pin shaped like a ribbon, looped once. She was a survivor … and she was lovely.

"Good afternoon," she said with a tilt of her head. "Do we know you?"

"Not yet," I said, smiling. "But I'm hoping that might change …"

She laughed quietly. "I thought so. You're Dr. James Wilson, aren't you? You look pretty much like a 'James'.

"And you look a lot like a 'Patti'", I pointed out with a grin.

Her eyebrow curled upward in a coquettish arc. "You have a nice smile, Dr. Wilson."

I scrunched up my nose a bit, wondering when the flirting might end …

Behind me I heard a door opening and then closing. I turned in that direction, thankfully, and saw a very tall, very thin and balding man walking toward me in the hallway. Everyone else in the room looked up also … a lot like a flock of pigeons.

He came toward me with his hand stretched out in greeting, and I switched my briefcase to my other hand in order to reciprocate. His palm was smooth, his grip firm, and when he smiled, his long, austere face went from homely to handsome in a split second. I hoped he was the man I had come to see …

"Hello and welcome. I'm Dr. Thomas Gresh, and I run this little operation. You're Dr. James Wilson, I presume." His voice reminded me greatly of James Earl Jones. If we were in the dark, I wouldn't have known the difference.

"A pleasure," I said. "I'm James E. Wilson, late of Princeton, New Jersey, and here to apply for the position of Oncologist in your clinic."

"Come on back to my office, Dr. Wilson," Gresh said. "We can talk. Patti, you know where we'll be."

"Okay, Tom," Patti answered so softly that I had no doubt they were man and wife.

Something in her eyes disturbed me a little as I turned away to follow Dr. Gresh. Ultimately I dismissed the feeling in my eagerness to make this interview successful and offer the chance at a new job and a new life.

I followed him back the corridor to a section that was not so easily identified as exam rooms. Here, he turned to the right into a spacious office with comfortable furnishings and every wall lined floor-to-ceiling with book-cases. Volume upon volume of medical and reference books, case files, research papers in labeled folders tore my eyes away from all else. Indexed files filled with past issues of medical papers and journals of every description, boxed and labeled with the year of publication, rested in their own glass-fronted cabinets. I'd never seen anything like this, so neatly preserved in such a compact space.

Intrigued, I moved along the rows, reading titles and feeling the urge to just delve into them for the sheer joy of doing so.

Behind me, Dr. Gresh leaned against the edge of his desk and watched me, I sensed, with obvious pride.

"This is incredible," I said, turning to face him. "Did you do all this cataloguing yourself?"

He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. "Yes. Patti and I have been working on it for years. It's rather an ongoing process … intriguing and endless … and I take it you've already deduced that she's my wife …"

"I did. She's lovely." My thoughts returned to the woman out front, and a shiver of forewarning ran down my spine. I thrust it away.

"A lot of our friends say the same thing as you. I'm a lucky man. Patti's a breast cancer survivor, but you'd never know it to look at her now. She worked with me every step of the way in my career, and when we began setting up this office. It took us over a year to catalogue all the material. It used to be stored in boxes all over the house, and eventually spilled into the garage. Now, thanks to the Dewey Decimal System, we can locate anything in this collection in about thirty seconds of a question being asked … as good as a computer … except hands-on."

"Wow! Simply … wow! Wickipedia-on-a-stick. I am very impressed. I wouldn't mind being locked in this room by myself for about a year."

He laughed. "That's the first time I've heard it put that way, but yeah, others who've seen it had similar comments."

It got suddenly silent then. It was almost as though we were deep in the forest and Bambi's father had just appeared at the top of the mountain. Gresh's eyes met mine, and I knew he'd made a decision. I held my breath.

"You know, Dr. Wilson, when I first read through your credentials and studied your educational, internship and residency records … your history of deaths-versus-remission cases … and your accompanying letter of introduction, our search for the right person to join this facility ended abruptly. This interview is just a formality. The job is yours if you want it."

I could feel my eyebrows rising to spectacular heights. "Really? You're hiring me because of a letter I wrote, and because I'm impressed with your historical medical collection?"

"In a word: yes. And because I like your enthusiasm. With Oncology, you really need that." He stuck out his hand again, and I reached across to take it. "Welcome to the madhouse," he said with a smile.

"The honor is mine, and the name is 'James'," I said, trying not to sound like an idiot.

"Wonderful. And it's 'Tom'. 'Tom' and 'Patti' from now on. We don't stand on protocol much around here.

"Actually, we should wrap it up now and go out to tell Patti. She was the one who put me onto you in the first place. Office hours will be over in another half-hour. The three of us should go to dinner; over at the Cabana on Clematis Street … I've already made reservations. We can discuss salary and benefits."

I stared at him, a little overwhelmed. My life had done a complete about-face in less than fifteen minutes. "I-I'm up for that, I think …" I was stammering and at a loss for words; struggling for breath in my astonishment at the abrupt declaration. "I have to catch my breath and take this all in. I haven't made overnight accommodations, because I had no idea how the interview was going to go. We might have taken an instant dislike to each other, you know."

Gresh had a smile on his face. "You already have accommodations at the Palmetto Inn, out near the old air base on Okeechobee Road and across from PBI. Compliments of the clinic. That work for you?"

I swallowed. "Yes." I still felt as though I'd just come away from a confrontation on the mountain with the Great Stag."

Thomas Gresh had that infuriating smile on his face … like he was Santa Claus and he had just presented the astonished kid with 'the' coveted Daisy B-B-gun for Christmas. "You have six weeks to untangle things in New Jersey and find a place to live down here. Then I want you at work with bells on … hear?"

"More than fair," I finally said. "I've made moves with far less notice than that." I paused a moment, and then said sheepishly: "I've been divorced three times. It's long past time for a sea change."

He guffawed. Slapped his thigh like an old-time hillbilly.

 _*This is crazy!*_

"Good enough. Let's go tell Patti to put a new doctor on the payroll …"

… and when the three of us got into Tom's 0ld Buick convertible to go to dinner, I closed the door on New Jersey, once and for all.

isa

175


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

"Home is Where the Heart Isn't"

"MMPHH … H'LLO?"

"GREGORY? GOOD MORNING, MY BOY. THIS IS LUTHER."

 _*WELL NO SHIT! I WOULD NEVER HAVE KNOWN … AND I WISH YOU WOULDN'T CALL ME THAT, YOU OLD FART!*_

 _BUT I DIDN'T SAY IT. INSTEAD, I CLAMPED MY JAW DOWN TIGHT AGAINST ANY INDESCRETIONS, AND SAID INSTEAD …_

"MORNIN' LUTHER. HOW ARE YOU?"

… NOT THAT I REALLY WANTED TO KNOW, BUT IT WAS THE POLITE THING TO SAY, AND I WAS STILL PRACTICING MY SOCIAL GRACES.

"I'M FINE, GREG. LISTEN … THE REASON I CALLED IS TO ASK IF YOU'RE BUSY THIS MORNING."

* _HUH? BUSY? I'M ABOUT AS BUSY AS A TURTLE AT A SNAIL RACE. I CLEARED MY THROAT NOISILY SO I WOULDN'T LAUGH.*_

"I'M NOT BUSY, LUTHER. WHAT'S UP?"

"WELL," HE SAID, "TWO THINGS: FIRST, I'VE ARRANGED FOR WELLS FARGO TO COME OVER FOR YOUR MOTHER'S PIANO AND HAVE IT DELIVERED TO YOUR STORAGE UNIT IN PRINCETON. THIS IS A MAN- AND-WIFE TEAM, GREG. THEY'LL LOAD IT INTO A PADDED VAN AND DRIVE IT THERE, IF THIS MEETS WITH YOUR APPROVAL?"

I DIDN'T QUESTION HIM. I'D LEARNED FROM EXPERIENCE THAT THIS OLD BIRD HAD "CONNECTIONS" I COULD NOT EVEN FATHOM, AND HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING. I SAT UP IN BED, FULLY AWAKE, AND CONSIDERED WHAT HE'D JUST SAID TO ME. "SOMEONE IS COMING HERE TODAY? TO TAKE THE PIANO TO NEW JERSEY? WHEN?"

"AROUND NOON. THEY'LL DELIVER IT PERSONALLY AND FLY BACK. THE VAN IS A COMPANY VEHICLE AND THEY CAN LEAVE IT WITH THE W.F. FACILITY THERE. WILL YOU BE ABLE TO LET THEM IN TO PUT THE PIANO ON A DOLLY AND GET IT OUT OF THERE? I'VE ALREADY CALLED WILLY, AND HE'LL BE OVER SOON TO HELP GET THE THING IN THE VAN."

I stretched my arms over my head and yawned; slid my legs off the edge of the bed. I needed to take my meds soon. My leg was buzzing. "Okay ... no problem-o … I'll meet them. You said there were two things. What's the other one?"

"The second thing concerns information I need to get from you so I can make arrangements to ship the pickup truck to Barbados … but I should let you go now. I'll talk to you about it when I see you this evening. Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

I shook my head at his obvious "Mother-Henning." I think Luther Finn was beginning to believe he was my grandmother … or my guardian.

(Shades of Jimmy Wilson!)

I paused, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't. "Okay with me, Luther. Whatever you think is best. I'm heading for the shower now. And I'm good, by the way. I don't need anything. Willy can let himself in … and we'll both see you tonight."

"That's fine, my boy. Take care, and I'll see you later. 'Bye."

"Bye, Luther."

I guessed I'd better get my ass on the stick … or "the sticks" … something …

Willy Ortiz pulled up in front of the house about the same time as the small van from Wells Fargo. He was out of his car quickly and guiding the driver as he backed carefully into the driveway until the back wheels were at the bottom of the ramp. I could see the WF logo printed neatly on the top front corner of the cargo compartment.

Two young people unfolded themselves from the cab and walked with Willy onto the back porch and into the kitchen. I had been watching from the kitchen island and saw them approach. The van driver didn't look like he could have been more than about twenty years old, and the young woman with him, even younger. Willy introduced them to me as Johnny and Becky Williams.

I stood up to greet them, adjusting the crutches beneath me.

"Nice to meet you," I said; fully aware that both their gazes settled, as was usually the case, on my bum leg and sock foot. At least I had worn jeans this morning instead of cutoffs, so they didn't get to see over the rim of the "Grand Canyon".

"You're hurt!" The girl exclaimed. She backed away from me, laying a hand on her husband's arm, preventing him from reaching out to shake hands.

I threw back my head and laughed out loud. Startled hell out of them.

"I'm not _hurt … exactly,"_ I grunted.

Then I added … in a gentler voice … as though they were the most clueless of clinic patients: "I'm Greg, and I'm _crippled_. There's a difference. _Hurt_ gets better, usually. _Crippled_ doesn't. It's your best friend for life. I won't break though … but I _will_ be pissed off if you get all sloppy on me. Okay?"

The young man pulled away from his wife's restraining touch and walked across to shake hands. "I sure wouldn't want to make you mad, Dude. I like your attitude. Wish I could talk to people straight forward the way you do."

I reached for his hand and shook it firmly, as he did in return. "It doesn't cost anything, and it stops people in their tracks. Sometimes just saying what you think simplifies life dramatically. Nobody gets the wrong impression. I soft-pedal myself once in awhile, but it's the exception rather than the rule."

"Thanks, Greg. It's nice to meet you."

"Me too," Becky added, and we nodded mutual respect.

"The piano you're looking for, by the way, is right around the corner in the living room. It needs to make a pilgrimage to New Jersey. Willy said he'd help you load it. I … unfortunately … can't …"

I wasn't being a smartass.

Every once in awhile it makes me feel like crap when I can't do something that able-bodied guys with my build and strength could handle with one hand tied behind their backs.

The three of them moved that compact little piano quickly and carefully through the kitchen, out the back door and down the ramp. I stood in the doorway watching, my body twitching impotently with every move they made.

The ramp into the truck was made of aluminum, and my Mom's Baldwin walked up it and into the body of the van like a pony into the barn. I watched the two young ones cover the gleaming walnut finish with padded furniture blankets and block it firmly against the wall behind the cab. They held it in place with heavy rope that was sectioned for stability, and pulled it tight with a turnbuckle. I decided that even if that van got hit by a Mack truck and turned three somersaults in the air, that piano would still be standing there intact wherever the van landed …

When they were finished, Willy closed the back door and padlocked it.

The truck pulled out and made a left turn, headed for the interstate. Johnny blew the horn and waved. Willy and I waved back.

Luther pulled into the driveway at 5:30 p.m.

The Greek Bearing Gifts!

That night we dined on Lobster Newburg. Cholesterol feast. Infused with booze! Hooray! Oh. My! Grilled asparagus and a baked potato. Chardonnay in tall glasses. Coconut custard pie for dessert.

The food was sent in a rented, heated canvas cube from the kitchens at Country Cupboard. The wine and the pie rode in a chilled canvas tote. Willy had to accompany Luther to his car to bring everything inside.

By seven o'clock we were on our third glass of Chardonnay and belching happily. The conversation turned a little raunchy; centered on sexy women we had known or seen on-screen, and fast cars and bloody surgeries I had been a party to. Willy commented with a few of his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan, but was reluctant to go into detail. Luther and I didn't press him.

No mention was made about shipping a monster pickup truck to an island a couple thousand miles away. I figured out that we just forgot about that second thing Luther was going to talk to me about …

The evening finally folded at midnight. Luther and Willy left together after cleaning up the kitchen and gathering the food containers to return to the restaurant tomorrow.

I went to bed at 1:30 a.m., but the leg pain didn't go to sleep at all. By 3:30 I was up and on my knees, bent over the commode. My leg was furious and burning … and I was sick as a dog. Bye bye Lobster Newburg, asparagus, baked potato, custard pie, Chardonnay.

I spent the rest of the night on the carpet beside the bed with a blanket pulled down from on top. I did not have the strength to pull myself up there … just didn't.

Tomorrow was going to be a crappy freakin' day ...

179


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

"The Painful Art of Settling In"

I KNEW I WAS RUNNING A LOW-GRADE FEVER WHEN I AWOKE TO DAYLIGHT AND OPENED MY SLEEP-CLOGGED EYES. I WAS FLAT ON MY BACK WITH AN EDGE OF BLANKET PULLED ACROSS MY BELLY. MY LEG WAS UNSUPPORTED AND THE STEADY ACHE BEAT LIKE A TOM-TOM WHEN THE INDIANS ARE ON THE WARPATH. THINGS WEREN'T GOING TO GET ANY BETTER BEFORE THEY GOT WORSE …

… AND RIGHT THEN, I COULDN'T EVEN GET OFF THE FLOOR.

TO MY LEFT AND RIGHT, AS I TURNED MY HEAD TO LOOK AROUND, OFFERED ONLY A WIDE EXPANSE OF DARK GREEN CARPET AND A SNAKE'S EYE VIEW OF FOUR BED LEGS. THE TOP HEM OF A WRINKLED SHEET HUNG OFF THE MATTRESS LIKE A WATERFALL, AND A PILE OF LAST NIGHT'S HASTILY DISCARDED CLOTHING RESEMBLED A CHUNK OF BLUE BASALT ON AN EXPANSIVE BARREN MESA.

I LIFTED MY RIGHT SHOULDER IN AN EFFORT TO TURN ONTO MY SIDE, BUT THE DEAD LOG THAT WAS MY RIGHT LEG SAID: "OH-NO-YOU-DON'T!" I LAY BACK AGAIN, GRIMACING. I KNEW THE ROOM WAS WARM, BUT DOWN HERE IT WAS COOLER, AND I COULD FEEL GOOSEFLESH SPREADING ALONG MY BODY LIKE AN ICE SHEET ACROSS THE ARCTIC.

I COULDN'T STAY HERE AND I COULDN'T GET UP. I LOOKED AT MY WATCH, BUT IT WAS ONLY 9:00 A.M. WILLY WAS NOT DUE TO ARRIVE FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER TWO HOURS.

ABOVE ME I HEARD THE ELECTRONIC WARBLE OF MY CELL PHONE. I COULDN'T ANSWER IT.

THINKING BACK TO YESTERDAY, I'D TOLD THE KIDS WITH THE VAN THAT I WASN'T 'HURT'; I WAS 'CRIPPLED' … AND THERE WAS A DIFFERENCE.

NO THERE ISN'T!

RIGHT NOW I'M CRIPPLED AS ALL HELL, AND I'M HURT. I'M ALSO A COWARD AND A LIAR; ALL OF THESE THINGS AT THE SAME TIME.

FINALLY THE PHONE STOPPED RINGING.

I FEEL LIKE CRAP. I FEAR I MIGHT BE SLIPPING INTO A BOUT OF BREAKTHROUGH PAIN. THE DAMN WARNING SIGNALS ARE ALL THERE. WORKING BOTH HANDS UNDERNEATH ME, I HEAVED UPWARD UNTIL MY SHOULDERS SCREAMED … AND DRAGGED MY SORRY ASS IN SLOW MOTION ACROSS THE CARPET. I LANDED GASPING; LEANING INTO ONE OF THE CHAIRS BESIDE THE WINDOW TABLE. FROM THERE I PUSHED TO A SEMI-SITTING POSITION WHERE I COULD GRAB MY THIGH AND TRY TO WRENCH THE PAIN OUT THROUGH THE SKIN.

NOTHING WORKED. IT DIDN'T DIMINISH. IT ESCALATED. I WAS SURPRISED TO DISCOVER THAT I WAS HISSING A STRANGLED, GARBLED SOUND BETWEEN MY TEETH, THE BLOOD POUNDING IN MY TEMPLES AT THE EFFORT TO HOLD IT BACK. I SWORE I WOULD NEVER BE REDUCED TO SCREAMING AGAIN. BUT THERE IT WAS. THE COWARD PART AND THE LIAR PART, HAND-IN-HAND. THE LIGAMENTS IN MY KNEE TIGHTENED UNTIL MY LEG TRIED TO DOUBLE AGAINST ITSELF. MY TEETH UNLOCKED, MY MOUTH GAPED OPEN … AND I SCREAMED.

That's all I remember … until I opened my eyes to see Willy Ortiz looking down at me with a stern expression on his face.

"Wha … ?"

"Be quiet, Greg," He said sharply. "Don't talk. I just gave you a shot of morphine. If I hadn't got here when I did, you'd be close to stew meat."

"It's breakthrough pain, not a death sentence …" I was in the bed and had no idea how I'd got there. I was also wearing nothing but boxer briefs and didn't know how I'd got _that_ way either.

"Shush!" He had a stethoscope sticking out of his ears and was listening to my chest. I glared at him, but he paid no attention. Finally he sat back, pulled the ear buds out and yanked the blankets up to my shoulders. He caught me glaring and glared back in return. "You couldn't get to your phone, could you?"

I shook my head. _*No ...*_

"That was me that called awhile ago. I didn't like it when you didn't answer. Didn't know I could still move that fast …"

I was relieved when he shut up. "Can I say something now?"

He nodded.

"How the hell did I get into bed? Did you take my clothes off?"

"Yeah … I picked your lard-ass off the floor and plunked you into bed. I took your tee shirt off. And your socks. Your leg was still spasming and you were thrashing around like a fish out of water. I gave you a shot, elevated your leg and put the moist heat pad on it.

"I also checked your heart rate to be sure you weren't having a coronary. You were lucky. Another ten minutes and … who knows! You _have_ to see a specialist about the leg. Soon. It's not going to get any better. Not now … not later. Probably never. Your foot's turned inward. 'Inversion', I think they call it."

"I know all that," I reminded him petulantly. "I already had plans to find a specialist, but you and Luther stuck a monkey wrench in the machinery. I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose the damn thing, but I'm trying to put it off as long as I can. I've had it for a freakin' long time, you know … and I'm kind'a used to it."

"Yeah, I figured that would be your excuse. I have a military elastic bandage I want you to start using. You don't need to wrap it tightly, but some firm pressure against those jittery nerve endings might save you from too many whacks with the morphine needle. Too much morphine is worse sometimes than a heart attack. I also brought along a new medication you might want to try. It relieves pain without causing addiction … if you use it right."

I looked at him suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Immitrax. I got it from my former CO who first used it on the battlefield in Afghanistan. It's almost ready for approval by the FDA. I got permission for you to try it. But you have to follow protocols. Experimenting, even by doctors, will break the protocol. The CDC definitely would not be happy with you. Okay?"

"Don't tell me you're a rule-breaker like me," I said. "If it's not on the market yet, how do I know it's safe?"

Willy laughed. "If you promise to keep your mouth shut, I'll show you why … because I've taken the stuff myself. And yes … I'm a risk taker ... just like you."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "And … ?"

He sat down on the edge of the bed. Hiked up his right pants leg. What I saw was a stretch of flesh-colored industrial plastic that fit into his sock and shoe. A metal rod reached upward into a stainless steel artificial knee, and beyond that, a formidable-looking contraption that cupped his flesh-and-blood stump. I hitched a breath and pushed back the covers to take a closer look.

"See? I'm already a member of that exclusive club you're going to be joining before long. You couldn't tell I was using this, could you? I got a little too close to a land mine in Afghanistan. Took off my leg just above the knee. The prosthetic doesn't affect my job and I certainly don't advertise it. Even Luther doesn't know."

"I wouldn't have known either … and I'm a doctor. Yeah, no problem. I didn't just see what I just saw."

"Thanks." He rolled his pant leg back down and stood. "I want you to sleep, Greg. At least a couple more hours. When you get up, I'll help you wrap your leg … and there's already a bottle of 'Immy' in your top dresser drawer. That's also on the QT … okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Thanks." I tucked my head down and got comfortable. I was pain-free and drowsy. It would be wonderful to feel "normal" for a while. I wanted to ask Willy more questions about the prosthesis … and the new medication … but not now …

The house was very quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner. I lay in a twilight world for a few minutes, but there were no sounds of movement and no voices. The sun was either going down, or coming up. It was clouding over and getting ready to rain. I reached down to my leg, ghosting my fingers over the scar and touching the thigh area a little further upstream. The large heating pad was pleasingly warm. The truncated flesh was quiet for a change and I did not wish to disturb it while it was sleeping. …

I sighed and pushed the blanket down to my waist. The room was comfortable and so was I. No telling how much longer it could last, so I closed my eyes and let myself drift off.

The next time I woke, Luther was sitting in a chair beside my bed. He scared the crap out of me when I looked over and saw his bulky body blocking my view of the window. William Howard Taft in dusky, soft silhouette. He appeared to be dozing. I smiled.

"I saw that," he said softly. "Startled you, didn't I?"

"Uh huh. How long have you been there?"

"Not long, dear boy. Are you feeling better? Willy told me what happened."

"I think I'll live," I grumbled. "Actually, he gave me a shot and I've been asleep most of the day. Where is he? Isn't it a little beneath your station to play baby sitter?"

"Oh, I don't mind. You're my client … and I have two young nieces that I babysit quite often. You don't look much like either one of them, but the job description is the same." He smiled in that grandfatherly way. "Willy went to get us some supper. We thought you might be a little hungry by now. He said you lost your supper down the plumbing last night … and you haven't eaten at all today."

"No … I haven't. But I haven't been very hungry either, since I've been in La La Land most of the time." I pulled myself upward and leaned against the headboard. Every muscle screamed in protest.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"That would be good, Luther. Yeah. Please." So it was evening. I had slept the day away.

He got out of the chair and lumbered into the bathroom. Came back in a moment with a paper cup of water, which I gulped in two swallows. He eased himself back into the chair and looked across at me; made eye contact and said: "Greg, I've asked my doctor to come by and take a look at you. You scared us … and I know you're a doctor … but I also know doctors can be their own worst patients. I hope you're all right with that, because he's coming."

I frowned.

 _*Oh shit!*_

"You didn't have to do that, Luther. I'll be okay by morning and it will be a wasted trip."

"You heard me," he said. "You still look a little peaked and it won't hurt for him to check you over. Are you in pain now?"

I blinked and looked at him with a scowl on my face, which he ignored. His question caught me by surprise because when I'm not in pain, I'm not thinking about pain … and I was not in pain at that moment.

"I'm okay, Luther. Whatever Willy did, it worked."

"I'm glad to hear that. Did he tell you he was in the medical corps in Iraq and Afghanistan?"

"Yes he did."

"He was one of the lucky ones. He was wounded and got sent home. He doesn't talk about it very much. Anyway, he'll be here with something to eat very soon. After that, Dr. Delaney will be here to see you."

"Delaney …. Clayton Delaney?"

"Yes."

"Haven't seen him in a hundred years."

"He hasn't changed much." Luther pushed himself out of the chair again and turned toward the door. "You should do as I say, my boy, or I'll sit on you. I'm going out to brew a pot of coffee. Willy will be back soon. You also might want to put a shirt on …" He reached down suddenly and patted my hand. "I'm glad you feel better, Greg. I couldn't face your parents in the Great Beyond if I ever let anything happen to you."

I nodded, wishing he would just get the hell out of here. His compassionate words were doing nothing to help my composure.

Damn crazy old man … faker …

"I can't begin to thank you for all you've done," I finally told him, "so I won't. I hate seeing grown men cry …"

We nodded to one another and he turned and lumbered away. Kind of like Smokey the Bear, only bigger. He trundled out the doorway and into the hall. I heard his throaty chuckle diminish as he moved toward the kitchen.

I sure-as-hell wouldn't want him to sit on me! More and more I was gaining respect for the old buffalo. When Mom and Dad chose a lawyer, they made a canny decision with Luther Finn …

I barely had time to get to the bathroom to relieve myself and then roll back to the bedroom and pull on knee-length shorts and shirt … which had me wincing. All my muscles were cramped and hurt like hell with every move I made.

I heard the back door open and close. Willy was back. I straightened in the wheelchair, determined to hide the fact that sometimes a cure is almost as much a pain in the ass as the disease.

We ate oven-baked haddock, scalloped potatoes and stewed tomatoes, and sipped on huge mugs of Luther's good coffee. I was aware that both men watched every move I made like I was an insect in a petrie dish. I pretended to be oblivious … but I think they were both onto that.

Delaney got there about six.

I had just spent an inordinate amount of time in the Jacuzzi, and was prunified in the extreme. My muscles, however, were relaxing and almost back to normal. My leg was quiet and what pain remained was at a minimum. I attributed the improvement to the Immitrax. I had taken two of the small pink pills so far, and the nagging pain had not returned. Also, I felt no compulsion to swallow more pills than the prescription called for. I wondered idly which brain synapses the stuff had tweaked that the Vicodin had not.

 _*Interesting.*_

Willy wrapped my thigh with a very wide elastic bandage that did not bunch up when my knee flexed. I reveled in the freedom by lounging on the bed in my tee shirt and shorts, browsing through a wrinkled newspaper he had bought the day before. My leg was cushioned on a soft pillow and my feet were bare. I sat flexing my toes like a kid with his feet in the sand, moving my ankles back and forth and shaking my head in disgust at the limited motion in the right one.

I was shaved and shorn, hair combed and body spritzed with Old Spice. For now I was almost insanely comfortable and wondering how long it could last …

I heard, rather than saw, a presence in the bedroom doorway, and I looked up to see the visitor I'd been expecting, but not wildly anticipating.

The man who poked his head around the doorjamb reminded me instantly of the dad on "The Waltons". Tall and rangy, floppy gray-in-brown hair, and I swear … another guy with eyes that were bluer than mine. He and Packy should get together.

"May I come in?"

I knew who he was, and Luther was right; he hadn't changed much. "The more the merrier," I joked. "Just trying out my moving parts and seeing what works and what doesn't."

"Looks like things might work better if you took better care of 'em. I take it your knee is pretty much out of commission." He walked closer, looked at me sideways and smiled. "I remember when you were about ten and fell off your bike … wrecked that same knee."

"Doctor Delaney." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

He nodded. "Yep. Surprised that you remember."

"Oh, I remember," I said.

He reached out his hand and we shook. "Luther asked me to come over and check your leg. May I?"

I sighed, feeling a bit like the "Whack-a-Mole" at a carnival. Everybody wanted to take a crack at me. "Right now it doesn't hurt," I said. "I'd like it to stay that way awhile. Go ahead and check it, but if you hurt me, I'll slug you."

"Fair enough. I'll do everything in my power not to hurt you."

I nodded, but didn't comment. I felt myself tensing up … 'anticipation of pain …' Foreman's buggaboo … and mine.

When Delaney had set aside the heat pad and the blanket and unwrapped the bandage, he took his time studying the scar and its multi-layered configurations without touching. As he looked, I followed his line of sight nervously into the labyrinth of tiny blood vessels running close to the gnarled surface of the mutilated gristle where there was no flesh left to protect it.

Even the gentlest touch near the mangled meat below the surface, where the deepest part of the injury's crater lay, sent shivers of imagined pain through my nervous system and caused the leg to jump with involuntary spasms. Even when I was experiencing the worst pain imaginable, I did not touch the rubbery consistency of the wound's crater when massaging it myself.

Delaney knew that and did not touch.

Eventually he worked his fingers beneath the thigh, and I could feel him gently manipulating around the adductors: magnus and longus. I drew a sharp breath and hitched to the side, not expecting the sharp burning sensation his action caused. He looked at me questioningly and withdrew his hand. "Sensitive there too?" He asked softly.

I didn't speak. Just nodded. I couldn't meet his eyes.

"Ah Greg … in all my experience I've never seen anything that looks like this; and you still retaining your leg and having more than minimal movement. If it had been me, I would have sued that damned hospital until there was nothing left but a hole in the ground …"

I snorted a mouthful of sarcastic laughter. "Just like the hole they left in my leg, huh, Doc? I didn't have the stomach for being put on display like a side of pork. I made 'em pay though, eventually. I turned myself into a diagnostic bastard so indispensable that they couldn't afford to fire me. I rode roughshod over their stupid rules and regulations like Casey Tibbs used to ride a bucking bronco."

I lay quietly while Delaney rewrapped my leg and eased it back onto the pillow. "Y'know, Greg, your dad told me a long time ago what happened to you. That was the only time I ever saw John shed tears."

I gasped. "What?"

"Yeah. Broke his heart. He was very proud of you." I didn't answer for so long that he bent down to look into my face. "You okay?"

"I will be."

Delaney eased into the chair vacated by Luther. "Blackjack was a proud man. He wasn't good with words, but he was great at loyalty. He told me once that you and he didn't see eye to eye about anything, and it was his greatest failure."

I finally answered. "You know, I would have given anything in the world if he had told _me_ he was proud of me. Just once. But he never did. For the longest time I really believed what he said about me never getting anything right. I've spent my whole life proving over and over again that he was wrong about that … at least some of the time. That one omission messed us up forever."

Delaney shrugged. "All it proves is that you're as proud and stubborn as he was. Spending your life tied in knots over a bunch of words that didn't get said isn't good for your mental health. Have you ever heard of the Johnny Cash song: 'A Boy Named Sue'?"

He was pissing me off. "I was thinking about that the other day. It's another story of the elephant in the room. You don't see it until somebody reminds you it's there. After that you can never go in the damn room again without seeing an elephant standing in the corner …"

"I didn't mean to push, Greg, and I know things are hard enough for you."

"I'm fine!" I said. Louder than I meant to say it.

Delaney got out of the chair and looked down at me. His pity was obvious and suddenly I was seething. I clamped my mouth shut and looked at him with venom in my eyes.

"I'm sorry I upset you, Greg. It was good to see you. Take care." He had outworn his welcome and he knew it. He turned and slowly walked out of the room.

The remainder of the day passed in silence … most of it mine.

187


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

"Mom and Dad's House"

WE WERE SITTING IN THE KITCHEN.

IT WAS RAINING. THE FORECAST WAS FOR RAIN ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT; NOT CLEARING UNTIL LATE TOMORROW MORNING. NOT THAT I GAVE A DAMN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER … I WASN'T GOING ANYWHERE … BUT IT CAST A GLOOMY PALL OVER EVERYTHING. WE HAD TO HAVE THE HOUSE LIGHTS ON IN THE DAYTIME, AND EVEN THAT DIDN'T HELP LIFT THE SHADOWS. IT DIDN'T GIVE US MUCH INCENTIVE TO DO WHAT HAD TO BE DONE … SUCH AS BEGIN THE EXTENSIVE INVENTORY OF THIS HOUSE AND ITS CONTENTS AND MAKE LISTS FOR THE TEAM THAT WOULD CONDUCT THE REAL ESTATE SALE COMING UP A LOT SOONER THAN WE EVEN WANTED TO THINK ABOUT.

WILLY FINISHED LOADING THE DISHWASHER WITH DIRTY DISHES FROM THE PAST FEW DAYS, PLOPPED IN A GLOB OF DETERGENT AND TURNED THE THING ON. WE SAT AT THE TABLE WITH THE LAST OF THE MORNING'S COFFEE AND STARED AT THE RAIN THAT WAS COMING DOWN BY THE BUCKETFULS.

THE CRAPPY WEATHER MADE MY LEG ACHE, AND I RUBBED MY PALM OVER THE PROTECTIVE ELASTIC IN AN EFFORT TO CALM IT. I WAS TEMPTED TO REMOVE THE DAMN BANDAGE WHEN I GOT UP, BUT DIDN'T, CONCEDING THAT IT HELPED CURB THE CONSTANT JANGLE OF MISFIRING NERVE ENDINGS. WHAT I HAD NOW WAS AN ANNOYING ACHE, BUT I VIEWED IT AS THE LESSER OF TWO EVILS.

FROM ACROSS THE TABLE, WILLY WATCHED ME WITHOUT COMMENT. HE DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING, BUT IT MADE ME WONDER IF FOUL WEATHER DIDN'T SOMETIMES MAKE HIS STUMP ACHE THE SAME WAY THE TRUNCATED MUSCLE ACHED THROUGHOUT MY THIGH.

EARLIER, HE RELATED TO ME HIS EXPERIENCE DRIVING THE DYNASTY FROM NEWARK TO LEXINGTON, AND HIS SURPRISE AT THE SMOOTH WAY THE OLD CAR HANDLED … ALMOST LIKE A MUCH NEWER MODEL. I REFRAINED FROM TELLING HIM HOW I'D SMASHED IT TO HELL IN A FIT OF RAGE AND HAD TO HAVE IT REBUILT FROM THE GROUND UP.

I'D BEEN TRYING TO PUT MY PAST BEHIND ME WHERE IT BELONGS. I WAS DOING PRETTY WELL, I THOUGHT, BUT WILLY'S BRINGING THAT INCIDENT BACK TO MIND JUST RENEWED THE AGONY.

I SMILED A LITTLE IN RESPONSE AND TOLD HIM I'D BOUGHT THE CAR NEW AND HAD TAKEN CARE OF IT FOR GOD-KNEW-HOW-MANY YEARS. (PERPETUATING THE LIE …)

MOSTLY, I RESPONDED TO HIS ATTEMPTS AT CONVERSATION WITH SHRUGS AND GRUNTS THAT MASQUERADED AS COMMUNICATION. HE PROBABLY THOUGHT MY LEG HURT, AND HE DIDN'T PRESS ME TO TALK.

SO WE SAT THERE FOR TOO LONG, COMPANIONABLY SILENT, STARING OUT THE WINDOW AT THE BLURRED LANDSCAPE, WATCHING TRAFFIC SPLASH BACK AND FORTH ON THE STREET OUT FRONT.

Mom and Dad's house is in an isolated neighborhood on the outer fringes of Lexington, about three fields and a country road away from spotless maroon and white horse barns and white-fenced pastures. Out here, Kentucky Blue Grass isn't just a fancy way of romanticizing the commonwealth and its Sport of Kings. Early most mornings when the sun peeks above the horizon, one can hear the high-pitched squeals of foals and the deep-throated nickers of the mares in response. The grass really does have a bluish cast in the first rays of daylight.

Today, however, I couldn't have cared less. I had taken an Immitrax as soon as I got awake, and it had quickly muted some of the leg pain, but not diminished it. It still rang like a steeple bell throughout my thigh. I needed something to keep me occupied and take my mind away from the need to moan and groan. I scanned the adjoining rooms for a project that would give me something worthwhile to do and make me look like I was at least half interested in doing it.

The old console TV was unplugged from the wall; its antenna and DTA system packed away in a cardboard box alongside it. Their clunky floor-model hi-fi, bought in the early 60s when I was still rattling hell out of the sides of my play pen, stood under the picture window within easy access of Dad's old recliner. I remember him sitting for hours playing what he called "cowboy music" … 78 rpm records in albums that must, by now, be worth a bundle. He took meticulous care of them, and most of the printed covers, as well as the records sheathed within, were in like-new condition. I remember hearing Little Jimmy Dickens, Lula Belle and Scotty, Sons of the Pioneers, original Hank Williams classics. They must all be squirreled away in their cartons around here somewhere …

If I really wanted to look, this house was filled with memories. Many articles of memorabilia we had collected over the years had been stored in Aunt Sarah's barn in Ohio while we ran around all over the world, courtesy of the Marine Corps. When Dad retired and they moved here, everything was lovingly transported in reinforced crates and placed in attic, basement, garage, and special display cases.

I did not want to go through any of it, fearing that some of the stuff would bring tears to my eyes if I saw it again, and I could not afford to have that happen. My "gruff-bastard" persona didn't mean a damned thing to anyone around here, but my overblown pride kept refusing me any outward show of emotion where nostalgia was concerned.

 _*Suck it up, Greg. Be a man! Remember who you are and where you came from!*_

Yeah, Dad … I get it.

Willy was up and about again, scrubbing at a couple of pots he didn't trust to the dishwasher, and wiping off the work surfaces and kitchen island.

I pushed to my feet and turned toward the bedroom, awaiting one of the inevitable questions that greeted me every time I moved.

"Everything okay, Greg?"

I grunted back at him: "Mother Nature calls."

"Okay … holler if you need me."

I almost burst out laughing at that one. "Got it."

I continued back the hallway, grousing to myself at the amount of time Willy and Luther wasted keeping track of my movements and wellbeing and the status of my leg. I resented the questions that were geared to finding out if I might be hiding something. I was, but it was none of their damn business.

You'd have thought they didn't trust me.

I kept reminding them that I was a doctor, and I was very well versed on the multitude of things that could go south with the damned leg. Long years of bitter experience babying it made me an expert on the subject.

The oft-mentioned admonition about a doctor being his own worst patient ran through my mind for a few seconds, but I quickly dismissed it. God forbid I say anything about that to Luther. Delaney would probably tell him himself …

I knew I was putting off going through all the stored cartons and crates of inherited loot scattered about. What I wanted to do instead was spend the night on the couch in the living room with my own thoughts, surrounded by all the stuff I didn't need or want. What I wanted was to be alone with the memories and an old ambiance that would soon be gone forever. I was feeling a little nostalgic and a little regretful and a little lost … and I wanted to deal with all of it in private. No sympathetic bystanders. I wished for a fleeting moment that we had not been so efficient in shipping out the Baldwin spinet …

Later, I could tell Willy that I would like to be alone that night to poke around through some of the old cartons and find a few things that would bring back memories of my parents. The estate sale would blur those memories for the rest of my life, and I would like to be surrounded by them and maybe achieve some closure with the people who had given me life and chased me upward to manhood.

Actually, the speech I intended to make would be fabricated from total bullshit to keep him off my back and afford me a break from solicitous stares and annoying questions about the current state of my health. Willy didn't really know me that well yet, and maybe he wouldn't have his 'bullshit meter' turned on and realize he was being fed a line of crap that would have rivaled the cardboard tanks on Normandy beach.

But Willy bought it; all the crap I poured on like maple syrup.

He grasped my upper arm in a manly grip before he left; said he and Luther would see me in the morning and we could begin the inventory then …

… to which I nodded sadly.

When twilight turned to darkness, I turned off all the lights in the place except for one table lamp in the living room. The atmosphere of the house changed immediately, and everything seemed to exude an aura of spooky strangeness. Like a place of sanctuary awaiting the return of its guardians.

Down the street I glimpsed the same street light that had shone through the bedroom window a few years ago as I lay awake listening to Wilson snore like a buzz saw across our shared bedroom in the housekeeper's quarters. From here, however, the light was dimmer and more diffused by the shadowy leaves on the trees. In the quiet night I could hear the surge of the big central air conditioning system in the basement. Ambient sounds of this big house echoed a sense of belonging that was never present in the military billets we inhabited when Dad was still jockeying with the Marines.

I sat on the couch awhile with my head leaned back across the top. For a few minutes I traveled backward in time and listened to the voices in my head … some of the good times when Dad would let me ride with him in the front seat of the Army Jeep he tooled around the base in … let me wear his 'cover' … the military hat with the officers' brass and the shiny brim. "Little Big Man", he called me during those times, and I was so shivery with excitement at the extra attention, I could almost feel my bones rattling.

The times when he took Mom and me on picnics near whatever base we were stationed. Showed us points of interest and some of the prettiest places he knew about, but where we dependents seldom had an opportunity to see. We ate hot dogs in the shadows of the Great Pyramids. Went fishing in the Seine, sampled their delectable chocolate candy and climbed the Eifel Tower. Walked through the teeming streets and smelled the Akamiso of Tokyo.

Thinking about it made me hungry. I got up and wandered out to the refrigerator. The light hit me in the face, and I thought: _*Wow! Food!*_

Milk, bread, cold cuts, eggs, cheese, condiments, chicken nuggets, onions … and a six-pack of beer. Serendipity.

Immediately there was a dilemma. I couldn't concoct a decent snack on crutches. No hands. No way. I closed the refrigerator and clumped down the dark hallway to the bedroom. Located the wheelchair with the glow from the street light. Crutches plunked across the bed, my butt in the wheelchair. Hah! Two free hands. And a lap.

I ate a sandwich at the kitchen table, at the place where the regular chair had been pulled away into a corner so I could get the wheelchair under there. I munched the goodies, crunched a handful of chips from the bag in the breadbox, and gulped a beer. Belched. Reached for the second can to take back to the living room with me …

This time I sat in the semi-darkness. On the carpet; leaning back into the front of the couch. A position I'd often assumed as a kid to do my homework … no matter where we were in the world.

Sometimes Dad would sit in his recliner by the front window; the chair with the cigarette burn on the arm. There would be a stogie in his mouth and he'd be reading the local newspaper or a copy of Stars and Stripes. Mom would sit in the big easy chair across from him, or sometimes at the piano, playing softly for her own amusement … and ours.

Those were some of the good times; the good times when the old man wasn't acting like a Jarhead or pointing out loudly a list of everything I'd done wrong that day. I would lean my head back; my home-work spread out around me, listening to Mom play some Hoagy Carmichael or Irving Berlin. I would slug a root beer or two and wish that family life could always be so tranquil …

Tonight I drank three beers, ate a ham sandwich and an entire box of chicken nuggets smothered with ketchup and mustard, and most of a bag of potato chips. Who said I had no appetite?

After a time I found myself fighting sleep and the idyllic dream-images of long-ago family life turned darker. I remember rousing myself long enough to pull up onto the couch and stare at the ceiling.

I did not wipe away the salty tears that spilled down my cheeks.

I was simply trying to find a way to say:

 _*Goodbye …"_

192


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

"The Estate Sale"

THE NEXT TWO WEEKS TOOK A HEAVY TOLL ON THE THREE OF US, AND ON THE LAW FIRM OF FINN, GLADSTONE, STEIN AND LOFTUS. LUTHER WAS FORCED TO DELEGATE HIS OTHER RESPONSIBILITIES AMONG HIS PARTNERS TO SPEND MOST OF HIS TIME WITH ME … PROBABLY NOT ACTUALLY AS A FAVOR TO ME … BUT AS A FINAL TRIBUTE TO MY PARENTS, WHO HAD BEEN LONGTIME FRIENDS.

AT LEAST THAT'S HOW I SAW IT. THERE WAS SO MUCH TO DO, AND MOST OF THE TIME I FELT LIKE THE FIFTH WHEEL ON THE WAGON. I COULDN'T LIFT OR CARRY OR DO ANY OF THE HEAVY STUFF THE ENDEAVOR REQUIRED. SO I WAS THE LACKEY WHO COMPILED THE LISTS AND WROTE DOWN THE FIGURES WHILE WILLY AND LUTHER DID THE APPRAISING, WITH ME ADDING MY OWN TWO CENTS WHEN MOVED TO SAY SOMETHING.

THE MERCHANDISING ITSELF HELD LITTLE INTEREST FOR ME; IT ENTAILED A LONG LIST OF BORING NUMBERS, EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT IT WAS ALL I HAD LEFT OF MY FAMILY HISTORY. EVERYTHING WAS GOING UP FOR AUCTION; TO BE LOST TO TIME AND SCATTERED TO THE FOUR WINDS. I FELT A LITTLE LIKE 'THE DOG IN THE MANGER': I DIDN'T WANT TO OWN ANY OF MOM AND DAD'S KEEPSAKES, BUT THE FACT THAT THEY WOULD SOON BELONG TO STRANGERS, TORE ME TO PIECES. I WANTED TO PROTECT FAMILY TREASURES FROM THE HANDS OF DEALERS WHO WOULD RESELL THEM ON THE OPEN MARKET … BUT I COULD NOT. I HAD TO GET OVER THAT HURDLE.

I KNEW LUTHER HAD CONTACTED A FIRM OF REAL ESTATE LIQUIDATION EXPERTS. THE ARRIVAL OF THEIR REPRESENTATIVE WAS IMMINENT.

IN THE MEANTIME, LUTHER AND WILLY TOOK ON THE EXTRA RESPONSIBILITY OF KEEPING A PROTECTIVE EYE ON ME. IF FOR ANY REASON LUTHER COULDN'T BE WITH ME HIMSELF IN THE DAYTIME, HE SENT WILLY. ALL MY PROTESTS THAT I WAS OKAY ON MY OWN FELL ON DEAF EARS. IT PISSED ME OFF BECAUSE I WASN'T FIVE YEARS OLD ANYMORE.

LUTHER, HOWEVER, HAD BEEN A PARTY TO THE BREAKTHROUGH PAIN AND MY INABILITY TO STAY FOCUSED, AND HE WAS NOT TAKING ANY CHANCES OF SEEING THAT HAPPEN AGAIN. HE TOLD ME THIS IN A STERN, FATHERLY MANNER THAT FRUSTRATED ME NO END. HE WANTED SOMEONE THERE WHO KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING AND COULD TAKE IMMEDIATE ACTION IF I BEGAN TO SPASM OUT AGAIN. HOW COULD I YELL AT SOMEONE WHO WAS SO WELL-INTENTIONED? I WAS BEGINNING TO THINK THAT BEING A 'GOOD GUY' IS MORE OF A LIABILITY THAN AN ASSET …

FOR WILLY, IT WAS ALL PART OF THE JOB. OR SO HE SAID. BUT I DO PAY ATTENTION TO STUFF, AND SOMETIMES I WOULD CATCH HIM GLANCING AT ME WITH HOODED EYES WHEN HE THOUGHT I WASN'T LOOKING. I'M SURE MY BODY LANGUAGE WARNED HIM AWAY FROM SAYING ANYTHING WHEN HE SUSPECTED I WAS EXPERIENCING PAIN. BUT HE WAS NEVER FAR AWAY, AND HE WAS QUIETLY AMUSED BECAUSE HE KNEW IT ANNOYED THE HELL OUT OF ME. NEITHER OF US SAID ANYTHING, BUT THERE WAS ALWAYS THAT STATIC-FILLED SPACE BETWEEN US, MAINTAINING A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE. THERE WAS NO ANIMOSITY, BECAUSE WE GOT ALONG WELL. BUT THERE WAS THAT 'GUARDED-LOOK' THING; ALWAYS POKING INTO MY PERSONAL SPACE LIKE A SORE THUMB.

Early Monday morning a well-appointed man in a pin-striped suit and English chauffeur's hat stepped onto the back porch and knocked on the door. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a barrister's black umbrella in the other. This was the man whom Luther had hired to push the boulder up the hill; the expert who would do the setting up and organizing, the staging and pricing of everything from napkin rings to diamond rings. We had only the next two weeks in which to get everything ready.

Willy invited him into the kitchen.

He removed his hat, set down the umbrella and briefcase, and announced: "I am Reginald Thackery and I represent the firm of Thackery and Hines. I'm here to appraise the items you intend to display at your estate sale. I would like to speak to the owner, if I may, please."

He sounded like a bloke from Cambridge …

I was sitting in the living room, cataloguing Dad's phonograph records, both 78s and vinyls. I was wearing jeans and tee shirt with my leg propped on a pillow. I was still sucking at the dregs of this morning's coffee. I had taken an Immitrax upon rising, but it had yet to relieve the overnight ache. I raised my hand and called out: "That would be me, Mr. Thackery."

I wasn't overly impressed with our visitor … at first. He was tall and lean with what I considered a definite Sherlock-Holmesian hawkishness. I'd sat back and watched as he and Luther discussed my inheritance in friendly tones as though the two of them had been boyhood chums and even gone to ye jolly olde Dragon School together.

I thought to myself that Luther Finn would have fit right in with British aristocracy. He had the look, the bearing and the concentrated air of a dignified British frontbencher: a chubby Wooster to Thackery's complacent Jeeves.

Willy Ortiz, on the other hand, watching from the side, stuck out like a call girl at a Bar Mitzvah.

"Come on out here, Greg," Luther said.

I put down my coffee cup and the stack of records and rolled into the kitchen.

We looked each other up and down, Thackery and me. We nodded in polite greeting, mostly to fill the vacuum of: 'I-don't-know-what-the-hell-to-say-to-you.'

Reginald stared at me pointedly for a moment or two, and then looked up and away from my leg and crooked foot. I tensed, but Luther went right on, paying no attention. "Reggie, this is Gregory House, the sole heir to the estate of Mr. and Mrs. Bell and Colonel House."

As we shook hands, I got the impression that "Reggie" considered me just one more spoiled American that had inherited a big chunk of real estate I had done nothing to earn.

I considered him to be just another English fop.

We would both learn better. Later.

There were a few more moments of small talk while Thackery put his hat and umbrella aside and assembled a thick sheaf of papers. Presently he was prepared to go forth and begin the task of cataloguing and affixing price stickers and readjusting endless details.

Almost from the onset I discovered that this guy was freakin' **smart!** I mean, he spoke the language of percentages and probabilities and profit margins and market predictions; prices that dealers would pay for an item, as compared to a private collector. Slide-rule stuff and abstracts. As a doctor, I understood the concept, but in this endeavor I was very much a layman, listening carefully to someone well-versed in his vastly unpredictable profession. I decided he had to be half charlatan and half Oracle of Delphi …

I kept up with him for a while, but he chattered on in a manner that was giving me a headache. Just trying to absorb everything without looking like a dunce was difficult. Translating the verbiage that poured from his mouth in the stultifying British lingo was impossible.

Reggie carried a Smart Phone and an E Book, and a specialty calculator with little paper tapes that spewed numbers all over the place like a miniature ticker-tape parade. He took photographs and wrote copious notes with a bouquet of multi-colored fine-line magic markers. He left nothing to chance or to the imagination. All the while he worked, he and Luther kept up a constant banter with laughing and head nodding. I felt like I was about to fly off the end of a long sliding board into a vat of Cool Whip. It wasn't long before I peeled off and turned back to the living room to continue cataloguing old vinyl.

By the end of the day, Reggie had nearly finished the main floor of the house. He and Luther and Willy moved forward from the back storage room, the spare bedroom, and the housekeeper's suite where I was quartered. When they finished up with the living room and kitchen and Reggie thanked me for cataloguing the old record collection, there was still the attic, the upstairs, the basement and the garage. Plus a storage shed in the back yard and garden furniture scattered about.

I asked him how long the entire operation might take, and his answer resolved a concern I'd had. Reggie called me "Mister House", which indicated that he had not known my parents. Therefore, he did not know me, or even heard of me, and I decided that "Kyle Calloway" was safe in the closet as long as I got myself the hell away from Lexington as soon as the sale was over.

Reggie told me he would take his time with the rest of the inventory, and be ready to supervise the sale that would take place the weekend after next.

I asked if he had been told that the big Dodge pickup truck was not to be sold, and would be shipped to a hospital clinic on the island of Barbados. I told him also, that my mother's Baldwin spinet had already been shipped to a storage facility back east. He nodded in the affirmative and requested the truck be removed from the property while the sale was going on. "Out of sight, out of mind". I agreed, and Willy said he would take care of it.

Reggie wrote the info down and asked if there was anything else.

I said: "Nope. Just the truck and the piano … oh … and the family photos and picture albums. There's a slew of them. I definitely want to keep those. And some of the old phonograph records. Everything else goes."

He marked it down, crossed the items off the list, and the subject was settled.

I'd felt pretty good all day, much of which I attributed to the Immitrax and my decision to remain in the wheelchair. That night I slept well and woke up refreshed.

The remainder of the week was a repeat of Monday, and Luther had urgent business to take care of at the firm, so he wasn't there.

Reginald Thackery showed up in khakis and a sport shirt. The attic wasn't air conditioned, so he dressed accordingly. Willy helped out by lugging a pedestal fan up there and opening all the windows … which probably did nothing more than take stale air from one side of the space and shift it over to the other.

By 2:00 p.m. the attic was finished, and both men stopped long enough for sandwiches I'd concocted from the contents of the fridge. When they left again to start on the basement and garage, I did the cleanup from the wheelchair and chucked the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Later on, I sat at the table and went over the stack of paperwork Reggie had left on the counter. It was impressive. How on Earth had three people accumulated such a conglomeration of paraphernalia when so much of their time had been spent globe-trotting?

During my perusing, I found drafts of leaflets to be printed for visitors to the estate sale to pick up and use to locate items of interest. There was also a sketch of an ad to be printed in the local newspaper when the inventory was finished.

I had to admit: I was singularly impressed with this stuffy old Englishman.

The following Monday morning, Reggie 'tapped' on my bedroom door to announce that the pickup truck and the family photograph albums had been "seen to" …

 _*Seen to?*_

I had just rolled out of the shower, so I called to him that I would be out shortly.

A little sick of the wheelchair, I clomped into the kitchen on my fancy red crutches. Squeaky clean, shaved, hair combed … sort of. Jeans, tee shirt, one shoe, sock-foot.

Reggie looked at me with a puzzled frown. Then he smiled and indicated the chair across the table from him. He had already poured me a coffee and toasted an English muffin, for which I thanked him when I sat down and leaned the crutches beside me. "What do you mean, you've 'seen to' the truck and the photo albums?"

His smile widened. "Well," he said, "if those items are not here, we won't have to explain the presence of a very nice pickup truck that isn't for sale when there are three other vehicles that _are._ Someone might be put out about it. Willy put all the photograph albums inside the truck and drove it to Luther's firm. It will remain parked in their underground garage and locked up until after the sale. Then you can make arrangements to ship it to Barbados."

I shook my head. "Reggie, your expertise kind'a blows me away. You're good. And you work fast. It was my dad's truck and he took meticulous care of it. It's about seven or eight years old now, but it looks and runs like new. I would like to have kept it, but it rides too high for me to get in and out of. I have to use hand controls these days, and the Ram is a stick shift." I shrugged with resignation and took a bite of muffin and a sip of coffee.

Reggie looked at me hard; appraising. "Greg, may I have your permission to ask a personal question please?"

I'd have bet it would come sooner or later, but at least he wasn't calling me "Mister House" anymore. I dipped my head and smiled. His polite inquiry made it okay that he should ask the question that used to tie me in knots. I had even invited it by discussing my disability first. I nodded.

"What happened to you, Greg?"

So I told him the story of the infarction without leaving anything out. Excerpt for the car-crashing-the-house part.

When I finished, he looked at me gravely. "You _look_ like an athlete," he finally said. "But looks can be deceiving, can't they?"

I had not heard that approach before, and it surprised me. No one had ever told me I looked like an athlete after the infarction. "Nobody ever said that before, especially after seeing the cane or the wheelchair or the crutches. But I was one. Once. Sometimes a man loses track of all that when his reality gets pulled out from under him."

"Indeed," he replied. "I gather it's permanent …"

"Yeah."

He paused, watching me squirm with embarrassment.

 _*PLEASE … don't be pitying me …*_

When I didn't answer further, he sighed. "All right then …"

Friday evening the inventory was finished. Everything! A team from Reginald Thackery's firm would arrive Monday to begin setting up displays of sale items in a pleasing manner in and around the house.

The weekend was spent going over the displays and sorting through stacks and stacks of itemized lists and columns of figures that were staggering in nature to me. I just couldn't fit it all into my brain without thinking I was living in a wonderful dream or a dreadful nightmare, and would wake up any second. Neither the former nor the latter happened, and the days followed one after another until finally, the house resembled a small used car lot-furniture-appliance-jewelry-hobby-music-used-clothing-second-hand store with boxes of tchotchkes on the side. Leaflets lay in stacks by the door.

Overwhelming. Transforming. The newspaper ran Reggie's ads.

Even the two beds in the housekeepers' quarters stood upended and stripped of sheets and blankets. I guessed that I was about to get kicked out. Turns out I was right.

Reggie told me I should make plans for the weekend that did not include hanging around here. "Call up a friend," he said, "or a nice lady. Go to a fancy restaurant. Take in a movie. Stay over in a good hotel … tonight, tomorrow, maybe Sunday also. We don't recommend that a prejudiced party remain on the premises while an estate sale is being conducted. I'm sure you understand. I will work the sale with my staff and Willy and Luther. I'm sure that when you return, you'll be very satisfied with the result."

I nodded absently, not really processing all the implications. He was really kicking me out of my own house, just like The Property Brothers did with their clients. I guessed that maybe a dude in a wheelchair or on crutches, nosing around the proceedings, getting in the way, would be not only a distraction, but a nuisance and a safety risk. I also guessed I could check into a local motel for a couple of nights. Tie one on, maybe.

 _*Nice lady?*_ Where the hell was I going to find one of those, gimping around the way I was? I was certainly not looking for a sympathy date!

 _*A friend?*_ My one 'friend' was in a galaxy far far away, and would probably rather have his throat slit than be caught in my company …

"By the way," Reggie said, "the Smithsonian would be honored to accept Mr. Bell's stamp collection as you suggested. I told them it was a direct bequeath from Mr. Bell, and must remain anonymous. No leaks to the media and no publicity. Your name was not mentioned, as you requested, so Mr. Bell has their undying gratitude for the bequest. Will that be all right?"

I looked across at him, wide-eyed. I had mentioned the stamp collection briefly. One time. I grinned. "Jesus, man, you're a miracle worker. Do you have Scottish blood? If you do, then your great-great-great grandson will grow up to be Chief Engineer of a starship I heard about once …"

He stared at me with a puzzled expression for a few seconds. "Ahh … I see … you meant that as a joke. Very good, Greg. I would be honored to be progenitor of that particular Scotsman."

… and we both smiled.

So that's how I ended up at the "Howling Wolf Motel" on the outskirts of Winchester, Kentucky, Friday night.

I registered at the front desk, dropped my backpak in my room, shoved a wad of bills into my pocket and wandered back to the bar. A row of working stiffs filled all the stools except the one next to the end, so that's the one I took, amid stares at the red crutches and my obviously screwed-up leg and crooked foot. Near the back of the room a couple of drunks were arguing over a billiards game, and four yahoos were bent over a poker table, serious as all hell.

Something old and catchy and scratchy was playing on a juke box that hadn't seen a cleaning cloth in ten years. Maybe longer. (It would get far better attention at Amos' Tiki Bar, I thought in a moment of nostalgia). I settled onto the one available bar stool, parked the crutches next to me, and ordered a Rolling Rock Ale … and keep 'em coming!

Across the large room a tall, makeup-heavy redhead gave me the hairy eyeball and began to wobble in my direction. I heard snickers from the men around me.

"Fresh meat," I heard one of them whisper …

She slithered her way between my stool and the guy next to me, and batted heavy lashes almost in my face. I cringed. She smelled like too much booze, too much greasy food and too much hard living, if you know what I mean. I could see tiny flakes of black mascara residue falling onto her cheeks. Her dress was too short, too wrinkled and too out-of-date. There were dirt streaks in the crevices of her neck.

 _*Eww …*_

"What happened to your foot, sweetie? We could go back to your room and I'll massage it for you. After that, maybe we could massage somethin' else, huh?"

 _*Jesus H. Christ!*_

"Not tonight, 'sweetie'," I said in a mocking tone, turning away. "I just want a drink or two and a bed to lie down in … alone."

"Wouldn't you like some company?" The pout was not cute; more like grotesque.

"Not yours, doll face. I just took a bath." There were baritone snickers on both sides of me.

That's when she belted me. Damn near knocked my ass off the bar stool with a big black patent leather purse across the back of my shoulder. At the other side of the room, in the same general direction from which she had approached, a big bruiser with a cue stick in his hand strode across the floor like he owned it.

"What the hell goes on over here?" The brute demanded.

I didn't answer; just hunched up to the bar a little further and bent over my drink. The men on either side of me looked over their shoulders, and one of them said quietly to the bruiser: "Back off, Matt …"

"Hey you! Loud-mouth cripple boy! What did you say to her?"

I turned to face him, doing a slow burn. Just like in the movies: man minding his own business is accosted by a brute twice his size. Only thing was, the guys in the movies are carrying six guns, not crutches. I guessed 'Matt' didn't go to the movies much …

Why was there always a sleazebag hanging around every rural bar in every hick town in the USA? And why did this one choose me to harass? Were my crutches a dare to him and his smelly girlfriend? Like a red cape pumps up a charging bull? I must look like easy pickings. Surely there were other cripples to hassle somewhere in the Commonwealth of Kentucky …

"I told your girlfriend I wasn't interested," I said angrily, and the titters throughout the room increased in volume.

Behind the bar, I saw the bar tender straighten; coming to swift attention. The room quieted, watching. I think they sensed the big-mouth cripple was about to end up out back in the dumpster.

I let my hand slide discreetly off the bar and wrapped my fingers around the top of one of my crutches. When 'Matt' drew back and took his first and last swing with the butt end of his cue stick, the crippled guy swung his bright red, rolled-steel, fancy Millennium crutch and caught the bully at the point of his shoulder and on up beneath his chin. The cue stick flew across the room and 'Matt's' feet almost lifted off the floor.

When he landed off balance and folded over onto his side, he looked less like a bully and more like a naughty little fat boy. The redhead cursed and bent over him.

I turned around and leaned my crutch against the bar with the other one and picked up my drink. This was even better than the feeling of freedom I'd had when I was told I'd whacked the drug dealer on the head with the lucky toss of an old arm cane. I was motivated! I lifted my glass to 'Matt-the-Floor Mat' and drank the rest of the Rolling Rock down.

I banged the bottle down on the bar and said to the bar tender: "Fill 'er up … fill 'em all up!"

There was a rallying cry and I was suddenly surrounded by boisterous, laughing rednecks, bluenecks, pinknecks, yellownecks … and everybody else who could still walk straight.

Somewhere behind us came the sound of the redhead blubbering over her fallen hero. I sensed she was about to clobber me again, and I ducked. Her tone shifted again to anger, and I turned to take a look.

I was tempted to do the 'doctor thing' and check to see how much damage I'd done to the fat boy. Then he groaned and moved. I thought better of it. One of the poker players had "Miss Kitty" by the arm and was pulling her back before she could take a spike-heel shoe to the back of my head.

Gently and firmly, two men from the poker table escorted the troublemakers through the bar, into the lobby and out the front door. After that we all sat around shooting the shit and playing poker and getting blitzed until the bar closed at 2:00 a.m. The sober ones drove the drunken ones home, and I went to my room, staggering a bit, but still ambulatory.

They would see me tomorrow, the men said with grins on their faces.

Two points for the crippled guy!

Thackery had suggested that I spend some time with friends …

And I did. About ten of them. Two days straight.

Sunday night I slept like a hibernating grizzly bear.

Monday, noonish, when I showed up in Lexington again, Mom's house had a "SOLD" sign in the front yard. The place looked bleak and empty as the weekend's booze bottles.

It was time to say goodbye to Reggie and Luther and Willy, and thank them for everything … and then get the hell out of Dodge.

When all the bills and utilities and expenses were added up and paid, I would still be a millionaire. And I could search for that different dream in New England …

201


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

"Settling In … Making Waves on Palm Beach"

IT TOOK AN HOUR FOR A PAIR OF BURLY MEN FROM A MOVING AND STORAGE FIRM TO REMOVE MY CHOSEN BELONGINGS FROM THE STORAGE UNIT IN PRINCETON'S INDUSTRIAL PARK. THE TRUCK THEY PUT MY FURNISHINGS INTO WAS A SIX-WHEELER, BECAUSE I NO LONGER POSSESSED THE MASSIVE ACCUMULATION I'D HAD WHILE I LIVED AT THE LOFT WITH HOUSE.

I SOLD ALL THE MAJOR APPLIANCES TO THE OWNERS OF THE LOFT, AND THEY ALSO OPTED TO PURCHASE SOME OF THE LARGER PIECES AS WELL. MY LIVING ROOM AND BEDROOM FURNITURE NESTED PERFECTLY AGAINST THE FRONT WALL OF THE SMALLER VAN. THE MEN BROKE DOWN THE KITCHEN TABLE AND PACKED IT INSIDE, ALONG WITH THE SIX CHAIRS AND SOME HEAVY BOXES THAT CONTAINED TOWELS, BEDDING, SOME OF MY CLOTHING, DISHES, COOKING UTENSILS AND FOODSTUFFS FROM THE KITCHEN CUPBOARDS.

IT HAD BEEN A SIMPLE CHORE TO PACK POTS AND PANS AND GATHER THE FEW THINGS I DECIDED TO KEEP FROM THE DREARY LITTLE FLAT IN PRINCETON'S SEEDIER DISTRICT. I REMOVED THE REST OF THE STUFF I NEEDED FROM THERE AND STASHED IT EASILY INTO THE CLAM SHELL AND 'VANNA'S' BACK SEAT AND FORWARD STORAGE COMPARTMENT.

THE VAN LEFT ABOUT AN HOUR AHEAD OF ME, AND IT WOULD PROBABLY MAKE GOOD TIME ON THE INTERSTATE. THEY HAD THE KEY TO THE APARTMENT I'D RENTED IN WEST PALM BEACH, AND A FLOOR PLAN THAT SHOWED THEM WHERE I WANTED EVERYTHING TO BE POSITIONED. THE PLACE ALREADY HAD MAJOR APPLIANCES, INCLUDING WASHER AND DRIER, SO I DIDN'T HAVE TO BOTHER WITH THOSE. I WAS ON THE GROUND FLOOR THIS TIME, MAKING IT LESS OF A HASSLE FOR THE MOVERS, AND LESS OF A PAIN IN THE NECK FOR ME. I EVEN HAD A PARKING SPACE RIGHT OUTSIDE MY BACK DOOR.

I DRESSED CASUALLY FOR THE TRIP: BERMUDA SHORTS, GOLF SHIRT, BASEBALL HAT … THE SAME HAT I WORE ON MY HIKE UP HUNCHBACK HILL … AND MY FAVORITE BROWN MOCCASINS WITH NO SOCKS. HOUSE USED TO HASSLE ME AND CALL THEM MY "GAY SHOES" … DAMN HIM!

I left Trenton behind me, not quite two hours after the van, and it didn't take long until I was cruising along the I-95. After that, I putt-putted down the eastern seaboard, watching my speed and enjoying the late-summer scenery. I wanted this move to be the last one I'd ever make in my life. It was time to get my head out of the past and start over.

 _*But my head isn't listening very closely …*_

I left the highway just before dark to fill up with gas and find a convenient motel just a little south of Richmond to stay overnight. I wasn't crazy enough to try going nonstop. I ate two chicken sandwiches and two candy bars for supper, along with one bottle of water. That night I fell into bed like a stone falls into a creek.

In the morning I hit the road again with my cooler and five bottles. Oh yeah … and a large cup of hot coffee I got from a convenient doughnut shop.

Below Savannah the highway began to bear east, paralleling the ocean. The view took on a natural beauty that I had almost forgotten this country still possessed. I turned off the radio and the A/C, opened the windows and just enjoyed the scenery. The little air-cooled engine of the VW made the car sound like a motor boat on the busy highway.

When I finally turned off for West Palm Beach and located the moving van on Clematis Street, the men were loading furniture ramps and metal trolleys and getting ready to pack up and roll. We walked inside the apartment and looked the place over. It resembled a furnished apartment that the last tenants had just moved out of. (The 'cake' was baked; it just needed the 'icing'.) The living room was furnished, but otherwise barren looking. My kitchen was set up, but nothing was unpacked yet; still in cartons. The bedroom was also set up, but no finishing touches. All the cartons from the movers were collapsed and waiting by the front door. Everything was shipshape.

I grinned. Both men grinned. We shook hands and I pulled two white envelopes from my back pocket; handed them over. We stood around and talked for awhile, but I knew they were anxious to be off. They wanted to make the Georgia line before stopping for the night.

The van pulled away from the apartment and threaded its way carefully down the street to find a place to cross over and head north again. I waved and one of them waved back; I could see his grinning face in the side-view mirror. He was making a thumbs-up sign out the window. I guessed they were pleased with their tip …

It took another week to get settled into the bright, cozy apartment on this fairly busy street. I decided my time and money had been well spent. The place was delightfully air conditioned and I was equally delighted that I did not have to straddle the kitchen table every time I opened the refrigerator door. Every piece of furniture was left over from the expensive, comfortable stuff I'd purchased for the loft in Princeton …

The loft.

Just that quickly _he_ was back; his elfin ghost perched on the back of the sofa across from the TV. He was leering across the open space at me … daring me to make some remark he could turn to his own advantage and taunt me with. His wraithlike image wore that forlorn, hopeless half-grin that used to make me grit my teeth and see angry red dots in front of my eyes: that mesmerizing, engaging adolescent smirk that hitched my breath in my chest and caused my heartbeat to flounder in confusion.

His poltergeist was humming that mood-lifting melody from "Chorus Line", the one I'd teased him with the night I embarrassed the daylights out of him by proposing marriage in a crowded restaurant.

"One … singular sensation … every step that she takes! One … thrilling combination … every move that she makes …"

 _*Damn you, House, I miss you …*_

I wasn't 'new' on the new job very long.

Dr. Gresh transferred three of his newest patients to my care, and as I got to know them and began to treat and prescribe for them, I certainly received a liberal education about affluent patients who did not have to worry about where the money for their treatment was coming from. Soon I fell into a comfort-able routine, very unlike the tension-filled atmosphere that had existed with many of the indigent patients who showed up at Princeton-Plainsboro and broke my heart in the process.

It's late October now, the beginning of "Snowbird Season', the time of year when thousands of happy, vacationing retirees from the north flock to the Sunshine State to escape the annual cold season. Frozen landscapes filled with snow and ice is not an option for Gresh's patients. It's the time of year when unfamiliar, temporary Florida residents suddenly begin showing up here with "Lon-Gyland' accents and New York and Pennsylvania twangs. Strange and funny, and a taste of home to a transplanted Jersey boy like me.

I'd been on the payroll here since last July, and I found that I fit in very well with the Greshes and their staff. I shared an office with Jerry Sunday, another oncologist, maybe five years older than me, with a blond military crewcut and black-rimmed glasses. Jerry had worked here since he finished his residency, and he usually showed up in Bermuda shorts and a sport shirt with no tie. He told me that the politicking and bullshit that goes on at a large city hospital was not for him. He'd tried it briefly and didn't stick around long. He preferred the easy going southern atmosphere of this clinic. And he liked the boss and his wife. I had to agree with him. This was a pleasant place to work. It was efficient and clean. Most of the patients were retired and good natured and had the best damn medical coverage in the world.

There were two other oncologists whom I saw now and then. Nancy Rafferty and Midori Chan were wil-o'-the-wisps, in and out. The three of us had a nodding acquaintance. Both women had private practices as well as their work here. Their office hours were staggered, and they popped in and out of this office like Meer cats in and out of their burrows.

Two researchers shared an office across the hall from Jerry and me. These two came to work in the morning, checked their schedules and left again for their laboratory somewhere downtown where there were chemicals and lab rats that could not be housed here. They checked back in before they went home in the evening.

One of them was a native Kenyan named Ubu Kutu, whose skin was so black that it seemed to radiate a blue aura around him. He spoke English with a pleasant, melodic lilt that was very fascinating to listen to. I loved talking to this guy, and my fascination amused him.

The other one was the polar opposite of Ubu. She was the obligatory female that political correctness dictated, but if she resented those connotations, she was the last to show it. She was short and stocky like a female athlete at the top of her game; sort of Mary Lou Retton with red hair and freckles. And she had attitude. Her name was Ruthie Barnes, and she had an IQ of about 150, according to Jerry. To say she was a big genius in a small package would have been an understatement.

It was an odd arrangement, but it seemed to work well for all concerned. I soon learned the rhythm of it and got used to people appearing and disappearing at all hours. Ruthie called Jerry "Dikes" because he was so bowlegged, and she called Ubu "Oob" because it just seemed to fit. It took a couple of weeks, but one day I discovered that I was called "Sneakers", although I had no idea why. When I asked Jerry, he laughed in my face and walked away.

We'll soon be into the holiday season. I've never spent this time of year in a warm climate where people run around in shorts and sandals, with sunglasses riding on their noses. Neither can I imagine Santa Clauses and reindeer and silver bells hanging from palm trees, and Christmas elves sucking Pina Coladas through a straw. But that's the norm around this neck of the woods.

But life goes on, and here I am.

One of the patients I see on a regular basis is Paul Seebold, who knows he's not going to make it until Christmas. He is a widower living alone in one of the highrises that dot the landscape in southern Florida. He's just one of many senior citizens who have migrated here after retirement. Paul is a pleasant man who knows the score and accepts it. He won't let me hospitalize him; says he wants to die with his boots on. I do not insist. It's his choice. His life. His death. Paul comes here to see me twice a week because his pain is beginning to escalate. I treat him according to medical protocol and wait for him to tell me when it is time to surrender to hospice care. I know it won't be long.

November 16:

Thanksgiving is a week away now, and Paul hangs on. His time is near. He's been admitted to the cancer ward at Palm Beach Gardens Medical Center. He is on respirator and morphine pump. I visit him as often as I can break away here.

Two of my other patients are holding their own. These are two women who have had radical mastectomies. They are on Tomoxifin and are doing well. There is a new drug in the trial stages, and it looks promising, although FDA has not yet approved it. I wait. I have not told either patient about it. I don't want them to be disappointed if something unforeseen turns up in the drug trials.

My other patient is a boy of sixteen. Sometimes I would like to slap him silly. He's an only child and his name is Bobby Dryden. He lives with his parents in Lantana, a town a little south of here. Bobby lost his right leg to Ewing's sarcoma, a small genetic tumor that settled into the core of his tibia. When the cancer advanced enough that it became painful, he assumed it was muscle strain.

Bobby was the major hitter on his high school's baseball team, and he did not want to give up the power and adulation that his talent had given him. When the pain began to rock him so badly that he could no longer pass it off as something in the muscle, he and his parents showed up here. He had awakened screaming in the night with escalating pain and a high fever. Two days later his leg was removed below the knee.

Bobby was inconsolable. His disposition turned to self-pity and anger at the world. He blamed his misfortune on his parents, his friends, the doctors who had saved his life, and even the coach of his baseball team. His guilt overwhelmed him and turned him hard. When we met, he was still in a wheelchair, claiming pain and weakness. He would not attempt to get on a walker or strengthen his healthy leg on parallel bars. He would not do physical therapy. He expected to be waited on hand and foot … which his parents did. He hid from everyone. His friends had given up and began staying away. When he finally came to me, he sat in the office with an angry scowl on his face and refused even to speak.

I talked to him calmly at first, explaining that he had to do something to help himself, or he would end up in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Medicine could only go so far …

His reply was screamed so loudly that I cringed. The veins in his neck and forehead stood out and spittle flew from the corners of his mouth. "Well fuck you, asshole! What the hell would you know? You have two good legs and you're just like all the others … telling me what to do and how to feel. Go away and leave me alone!" He sounded a lot like someone else I had known …

I picked up his file, removed the receiver from the office phone and put it in my pocket. Without a word, I walked out, closing the door quietly behind me.

I went across the hall to Ruthie and Oob's office and sat down, rolling my eyes and keeping an ear out for any further uproar. Oob knew what was going on. He'd heard the diatribe; he couldn't help it. "What are you going to do?" He asked.

"Nothing. The next move is his. He told me to get out and let him alone. So I did. The bomb should go off in a minute or two." I picked up a copy of JAMA and began to read it.

Actually, Bobby lasted almost three minutes.

'WHERE THE FUCK IS EVERYBODY? I'VE BEEN IN HERE TWENTY MINUTES. WHERE ARE YOU, ASSHOLE?"

Ubu watched me not react. "Evidently you have not met the young prince's great expectations."

I shrugged; grinned. "I just have to impress on him that I'm 'Sneakers', not 'Asshole' …"

Oob's head went back. His laughter was boisterous, unlike his formal speaking voice. "Very good," he said.

The yelling continued for a minute more, and then it quieted. I put the journal down and meandered across the hall. I opened the door and reclosed it behind me. I replaced the phone on its cradle.

Bobby was sitting in his wheelchair bawling. His body shook and his voice cracked … like a kid whose body is still changing from child to adult, but whose angry sensibilities were still only eight years old.

He looked up, startled, while I leaned against the desk and stared at him. The sobs stopped as though someone had shut off a tap. "Where the fuck were you? I've been here for …"

"… twenty minutes. Yeah, I know. It seems we're finished here. If you don't want me to treat you, then you're free to go." I walked over and opened the door and stood back.

"Where's my Mom? She has to come and get me."

"No she doesn't. She and your dad are talking to Dr. Gresh. Go on, get out of here. I'm not holding this door open forever."

"I can't."

"Sure you can. You have two healthy arms, and I'm sure they can turn the wheels on that chair quite easily. Go on … try 'em out. Scram!"

He started to bawl again. I stood still. "That baby stuff isn't going to work, Bobby." I walked out into the hallway and kept going. Twenty seconds later, I heard the sounds of the wheelchair as it was being trundled clumsily toward the door. One big wheel caught on the doorjamb and jerked him sideways. He sat cursing and sobbing until he had worked it loose by himself and came clattering down the long hallway toward me.

I smiled. "See?"

"Fuck you, Sneakers … you asshole."

This time I grinned as I walked back the hallway and entered my office without another word.

Florida is interesting …

207


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

"On the Road Again"

HAVE YOU HEARD THE EXPRESSION: "ALL DRESSED UP WITH NO PLACE TO GO"?

THAT'S ME.

MY LAST STOP IN LEXINGTON WAS TO THE OFFICES OF _FINN, GLADSBURG, STEIN AND LOFTUS._ IT WOULD HAVE BEEN PRETTY DAMN CALLUS OF ME TO FLY THE COOP WITHOUT LETTING LUTHER KNOW HOW MUCH I APPRECIATED EVERYTHING HE HAD DONE FOR ME. I NO LONGER THOUGHT OF HIM AS 'WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT'.

BY THE TIME I NEEDED TO TAKE MY LEAVE OF THIS MAN, I WAS READY TO HANG UP THE SILLY NICKNAME AND AFFORD HIM THE ESTEEM HE SO RIGHTLY DESERVED. HE HAD TREATED ME WITH RESPECT AND DECENCY. HE HAD NOT BEEN GIVEN TO TOO MUCH OVER-SOLICITOUSNESS BECAUSE OF MY DISABILITY, AND FOR THIS I WAS INDEBTED. HE HAD GUIDED THIS CLUELESS IDIOT ALONG THE PATH OF A SON-AND-HEIR'S LAST FAMILIAL OBLIGATIONS IN A SKILLFUL MANNER. HE HAD GIVEN ME THE REGARD OF A FELLOW PROFESSIONAL, WHICH I HAD COME TO APPRECIATE AS A SINCERE GIFT FROM ONE ADULT TO ANOTHER.

(YES, I CAN BE A REAL ADULT WHEN I WANT TO BE! DON'T PUSH IT!)

A YEAR AND A HALF AGO I WOULD HAVE PAID ANY OUTSTANDING BILLS OUT OF MY INHERITANCE AND BEEN DONE WITH IT, AND THEN GOT THE HELL OUT OF DODGE. BUT THINGS ARE A LITTLE DIFFERENT NOW. AT LEAST, I HOPE THEY ARE. IT'S SUDDENLY BECOME IMPORTANT TO GIVE A DAMN ABOUT WHAT PEOPLE THINK OF ME … PEOPLE LIKE LUTHER AND WILLY ORTIZ.

I RODE THE ELEVATOR UP TO THE FIRM'S SUITE, FEELING WASHED OUT; STIFF AND SORE FROM THE WEEKEND. IT WAS EARLY, BUT THE WOMAN AT THE FRONT DESK SAID LUTHER WAS ALREADY IN HIS OFFICE AND IT WAS OKAY TO GO IN. SO I MANEUVERED ACROSS THE RECEPTION AREA AND KNOCKED ON HIS DOOR.

LUTHER CALLED OUT: "COME RIGHT IN, MY BOY …"

(HOW THE HELL DOES HE ALWAYS KNOW … ?)

I OPENED THE DOOR AND STEP-HOPPED INSIDE, CLOSING IT BEHIND ME. I COULD SEE HIM WATCHING ME OVER THE TOPS OF HIS GLASSES, AND THE OBSERVATION WASN'T LONG IN COMING. HE ALWAYS KNEW. "I SEE YOU GOT BACK OKAY FROM YOUR LONG WEEKEND, BUT I ALSO SEE YOU'RE A LITTLE SORE TODAY."

I GAVE HIM A SCOWL-GRUNT-GRIN COMBINATION AS I LOWERED CAREFULLY INTO ONE OF HIS CLIENT CHAIRS. "YEAH, I AM. I GOT A LITTLE HAMMERED THE OTHER NIGHT, AND IT TOOK ME ALL DAY YESTERDAY AND ALL NIGHT LAST NIGHT TO SLEEP IT OFF AT A CHEAP HOTEL DOWNTOWN. I'M NOT AS YOUNG AS I USED TO BE."

I COULDN'T BELIEVE I'D JUST SAID THAT.

He smiled smugly, but did not comment further. He pushed a stack of legal papers across his desk toward me. "Did you stop by the house on your way over here?" He asked.

"Yeah … passed by yesterday. Didn't stop. Don't have a key anymore. The place looks a little 'dead-in-the-water' …"

"Well, it won't be for long. You might be pleased to know that a family from Delaware bought it. Man-and-wife team of Cardiac Specialists … opening a new clinic downtown. They have three kids, a Mother-in-law and a Golden Retriever. The house will be ideal for them. Lots of space to stretch out. They'll be moving sometime in September … get the kids settled into school as soon as possible."

I pretended interest. In all honesty, I couldn't have cared less if Santa and Missus Claus opened an auxiliary toy factory there. "Good to hear," I said. "The place is certainly big enough …"

Luther smiled in that savvy way he has. "You don't really give a damn, do you?" He said in a whisper.

"No. I don't. It's just another big, empty house now ... nothing to me anymore … if it ever was …"

He looked at me strangely, but did not comment further. I knew he saw my regret, my pain, and the loneliness that radiated from me in waves. He tapped the pile of papers on his desk, effectively changing the subject. "We need to go over these, Greg. One final time before we pack things up for good. If that's all right with you."

"Of course." I adjusted my crutches and stood, preparing to move closer to the desk.

Luther raised his hand. I paused.

"However … I was thinking of having a croissant and coffee before we get started." He continued to look at me warily, and I decided he thought I must really look like hell this morning. "Would you join me?"

I nodded. "Sounds good. Thanks." I lowered myself down again, my breath whooshing between my teeth. The air around us was crowded with the things I wouldn't say and he wouldn't ask.

Luther poured the coffee and set a tall ceramic mug on the table between the two client chairs. It smelled really good. The croissants were cheese and honey; the aroma decadent and delicious. He placed the other steaming mug on the table between us and stopped to look at me a moment, watching me knead my aching thigh gently. I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since "The Howling Wolf." Had he figured that out too?

"I don't mean to be presumptuous, my boy … but if I may … there is a small upholstered stool in the supply closet …"

I paused in the rubbing, long enough to look up at him and nod. "Yeah … get it, please."

I let him lift my foot and place it across the stool. The ache lessened a tad. "Thank you."

We ate the croissants, drank the coffee almost in silence. He did not ask questions, but the air still sizzled with his real concern for me.

Finally I assured him. "I'm all right, Luther. Honest."

A soft rap at the door a half hour later revealed Willy Ortiz, back from an errand and checking in while Luther and I were going over the paperwork from the estate sale.

During the course of the conversation, Willy asked casually where I was heading when I left Lexington.

I stared at him, pole-axed. Where indeed? I shrugged, determined to keep my meanderings private.

I thought fast and lied through my teeth. "Well, for now, probably back to Princeton to figure out what to do with my life. After that, I have to track down a specialist to take a long, hard look at my leg."

Willy walked over next to me and stuck out his hand. "Well, Greg, I wish you the best, and I'm glad to hear that you'll look for someone qualified to evaluate your condition. It's making your life hell, and when you hurt, I hurt with you. Wherever you go, whatever you do, rest assured that being associated with you has been a real adventure for me. Good luck and Godspeed …"

Taken aback, I hardly knew how to reply, so I spoke the truth. "Thank you Willy. Sincerely. The feeling is mutual for sure. Goodbye."

He nodded, turned and said something to Luther, then out the door again and gone.

Luther's eyebrows rose. "For Willy," he said with a sigh, "what he just said to you amounted to the Gettysburg Address. I think you must have really impressed him."

Embarrassed, I didn't know what to say. So I just nodded once. "He impressed me too."

We returned to the papers from the sale after that. Both of us silent and retrospective. I'm not good with compliments. I don't know how to say "thank you" and then shut up. The discomfort I felt at Willy's comments left a lingering appreciation that I could barely mask. I felt the heat radiating off the top of my head, and my ears buzzed painfully.

The bill of sale for the house was $850,000, plus closing costs. I swallowed hard.

The three remaining vehicles, Dad's collection of tools and guns and the household furnishings went for a total of $98,000. The old Jeep alone caused a bidding war that finally reached almost $30,000. Mom's jewelry brought another $123,000. I had requested and kept hers and Dad's wedding rings, and Luther gave them to me now, together, in a small wooden box.

The final bill for expenses and incidentals came to just over $100,000. Current taxes, utilities paid and shut off; the funeral and cemetery bills, and the firm's final bill. Most reasonable. Luther had a bank check for $565,000 to be added to the inheritance, bringing the total to about a million and a half _after_ all the other shit ….

The IRAs and pension funds that we'd found in the last safe deposit box cost a bundle in taxes, but I left them where they were, untouched ... for a rainy day someday, maybe. I'd almost soiled my tighty-whities when the totals were added up.

I signed my name the requisite number of times in the required spaces, swallowed the boulder in my throat and laid the pen down. Luther printed copies on his printer and handed me a fat envelope full of legal information I would probably never touch.

As in: _Finished!_ Over and done with. I was a free man.

Luther and I made a toast with the dregs in our coffee cups and lifted them in celebration.

I lowered my foot from the stool carefully and gathered the crutches. It was time to go, and I needed to do that before I started to tear up … _damn_ this business of trying to crunch down on difficult emotions …

I wasn't fast enough. Luther took my shoulders into his big paws as I regained my stance and my balance. I could not get away from him. He drew me into an embrace and held me quietly for a few brief seconds, as though I were made of bone China. Then he released me and stepped back. I was smiling in embarrassed torture.

"Your parents," he said suddenly, "would be very proud of you, Greg. I knew them well, and you have the same loyalty and decency they had. It's been a pleasure working for and with you."

 _*Oh dammit, Luther … you sentimental old fool … you big fat Pooh Bear of a man … I love you too. You are a Hoot!*_

Out loud, I said: "The pleasure was mine, Luther. I'll remember you with laughter and respect. You are one _hell_ of a lawyer. Goodbye, and thank you."

I left him then. I still had a reputation to uphold, after all …

Today I was going out into the world of the living to find a place to call my own. I did not want advice or wise suggestions or words of caution. I just wanted to point the Dynasty's headlights toward the setting sun and keep going until the road ran out, or the hand of Providence bade me stop.

When I finally did stop, wherever that might be, I wondered if maybe there might be a few friends waiting to greet me, and shelter for the night.

I shook my head to clear the daydreams and lifted the Dynasty's trunk lid to slide the ring box and the big envelope of paperwork into the backpak.

I pulled a steep breath when I saw the wheelchair, folded and placed carefully inside for me as a parting gift. All I could do was shake my head in wonder. Willy must have loaded it when he reinstalled my hand controls on the steering column.

I stuffed the envelope and ring box into the already overstuffed old backpak, and I looked at the battered cane, no longer sticking out the top, but tossed aside next to the spare tire. It was time to face the fact that I would probably never use it again. I sighed. Reality was a bitch.

I would head east, then north, until I found a place that looked like home. I would feather a small nest and settle in to write a few more articles as the mystery doctor, Kyle Calloway. Try one more time to lure Wilson in. Maybe I'd become a real doctor again someday … check the ranks of local sawbones and find someone who knew what they were doing concerning my damned useless leg.

Six months from now, my car would probably be wearing a _handicap_ license plate from another state. I would likely be living somewhere to the north, minus a right leg, but pain-free. A couple of very ambitious undertakings still lay ahead of me. I hoped I was up to it.

I settled in, started the car's engine, fastened the seat belt with a sense of finality and pulled away from the curb.

Nightfall found me near the town of Grayson, close to the West Virginia border. I was tired and sore and hungry and thirsty. The Dynasty was running on fumes and my bladder was about to bust. It had been just too much trouble to stop earlier, and I had pressed on until there was no other choice. My leg would hurt like hell when I finally disembarked for the night, but it was now or never. I patted my front pocket to make sure I'd stuffed a couple of Immitrax in there. I had.

I located a nice little motel-restaurant on the outskirts of town and pulled in at the front where about a dozen other cars and trucks were already parked. I unlatched the glove compartment for my Handicap sign to hang from the rearview mirror. I didn't want to have to move the car again tonight. My leg already hurt with a vengeance and I knew I must give it a rest.

I took a minute or two to unfold myself from the seat and stand beside the car to get my bearings. I opened the trunk to grab the backpak and stumbled over to the motel's front door with a sign that read: "OFFICE".

I reached out to turn the knob, and saw someone inside making haste in my direction. I hesitated, watching, as a lady in a flowered housedress pulled the door open from the inside and stood back for me to enter. "It sticks," she said as I limped inside and maneuvered over to the front counter. "I didn't want you t'get hurt with the darn thing."

I nodded my appreciation and waited for her to scurry behind the counter and walk over to the register. "Are you lookin' for a room for the night?"

I nodded. "Yeah, please."

"Our rooms are sixty dollars a night, single occupancy."

I nodded and reached for my wallet. Pulled out a hundred and handed it over to her. "Will this pay for the room, plus supper and breakfast?"

She nodded. "Yessir, it certainly will." She handed me a key on a paddle and nodded. The number on the paddle was "4".

The outside of the building was well lit, and the sidewalk smooth enough that the crutch tips didn't catch on anything. I walked to the car and opened the trunk, intending to remove fresh clothing from one of my suitcases and stuff it in the top of the backpak.

I stared into the yawning mouth of the trunk. There were no suitcases. With the wheelchair lying on top of everything in there, I had not even realized they were missing. My mind tumbled backward in time to the night I visited the "Howling Wolf" and came back to Lexington after the sale was over.

Inadvertently I had left everything in the cluttered housekeeper's quarters when I departed for the weekend. I'd never given it a thought after that. Whoever arranged the room for the estate sale, assumed the suitcases were part of the sale items. Willy would laugh like hell if he knew. Even Luther would smile.

My suitcases had not been loaded into the car, and had probably been purchased by someone who wore size 42-long blue jeans, size-large boxer briefs, and size 3X tee shirts. My shaving kit, toiletries, beard trimmer and Sony radio were gone. I wondered what the buyer thought when he pulled out one size-12-1/2 right sneaker … and couldn't find the other …

I stood looking into the trunk, biting the inside of my cheek, thinking:

 _*House … you asshole!*_

Now I would have to stop somewhere to buy replacement clothing to get me wherever-the-hell I was going, or else get there in my dirty underwear. I would have to pull the wheelchair out of the trunk and use it inside a store so I could use both hands to pile a load of new stuff into my lap. What a hell of a way to start a new life in New England …

Yeah, New England. It had been only a dream before, but the reality of the situation was fast approaching. It was time to fish or cut bait … time to shit or get off the pot. I couldn't daydream forever.

* _Do it!*_

I did laugh then. Almost peed myself. I'd forgotten my bladder was full-to-overflowing. I was Clark Gable in "It Happened One Night". Only thing missing was Claudette Colbert. I closed the trunk lid, picked up the backpak and clomped back to my motel room.

Somewhat different attitude from the Gregory House of a year or so before. I should find some solace in that.

I unlocked the door and flipped on the light. The room was spacious and well appointed; the full-size bed very inviting. I flopped the backpak in the middle of it and took myself to the bathroom where I took a five-minute piss and heaved a massive sigh after the meagre little squirt at the end.

 _*Oh God!*_

I undressed and stood in the shower, running the water as hot as I could stand it, across my shoulders, down my backside and letting it cascade over me until the skin of my emaciated thigh turned a bright pink. It felt so good.

I trimmed my beard down to my PPTH scruff with a cheap house razor and called it good enough. Once I found a stopping-off place I would buy a new trimmer and sculpt it. I rolled my dirty clothing into a ball and placed it on a chair beside the door. I dressed in my last clean outfit … blue tee shirt, blue jeans, gray boxer briefs and grey rag socks. One sneaker, whose mate could be a thousand miles away by now.

I pushed the backpak under the bed and left the table lamp on low, locked the door behind me and headed back to the restaurant. I was tired and achy, but the Immitrax had helped reduce the volume of the ache. Now it was time to fill my belly.

That night I slept the sleep of the dead. In the morning I had bacon and eggs. I turned in my key to the young guy at the counter and was on my way by 10:00 a.m. I found a full-service gas station and filled up. Hard north, then east again.

I could probably run a zig-zag course all the way up to Pohenegambok …

214


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

"Scorpions, Fire Ants and Wild Wild Women"

I'VE BEEN IN FLORIDA A LITTLE OVER A YEAR. REALLY DOESN'T SEEM THAT LONG. I'M SETTLED AT THE CLINIC AND MY CASELOAD HAS DOUBLED … GOING ON TRIPLED …

PAUL SEEBOLD, THE FIRST PATIENT I TREATED HERE, DIED THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING LAST YEAR. IT WAS BLACK FRIDAY. BY THAT TIME HIS ONLY SUSTENANCE WAS CONTINUOUS INTRAVENOUS LACED WITH MORPHINE FOR DESSERT. EVEN SO, HE WAS IN EXCRUCIATING PAIN. I HOPED HIS JOURNEY TO THE 'OTHER SIDE' WOULD NOT BE LONG IN COMING. I WAS AT HIS BEDSIDE AT THE END BECAUSE HE HAD NO ONE ELSE.

PAUL WAS A WIDOWER. HIS WIFE AND SON HAD PRECEDED HIM IN DEATH: SHE, FROM NATURAL CAUSES. THE BOY, FROM A TRAGIC MOTORCYCLE ACCIDENT YEARS BEFORE. I COULD RELATE TO THAT COMPLETELY. I DID NOT MENTION MY FRIEND AND HIS NOISY SPORT CYCLE, BUT HOUSE APPEARED IN MY MIND LIKE AN AVENGING ANGEL WHEN PAUL TALKED ABOUT HIS SON.

THE NIGHT PAUL DIED, I PLACED MY HAND OVER HIS AND MURMURED THE PROMISE I HAD MADE TO HIM SHORTLY AFTER WE FIRST MET. HE HEARD ME AND UNDERSTOOD. HE SMILED.

I LIKED PAUL. HE REMINDED ME A LOT OF MY OLDER BROTHER, TOM. SAME STEADY PERSONALITY, SAME PHILOSOPHICAL OUTLOOK. HE WAS EASY TO TALK TO AND QUICK TO RECOGNIZE ANOTHER LONELY SOUL BIDING HIS TIME AND WAITING FOR HIS LIFE TO UNFOLD AROUND HIM. I WOULD MISS PAUL A LOT, EVEN THOUGH OUR FRIENDSHIP WAS BUILT AROUND HIS END GAME. I HAD DONE THAT SAME THING BEFORE WITH AMBER, AND KNEW THE CONSEQUENCES VERY WELL.

I LIFTED HIS BED COVERS AND PLACED HIS HOLEY OLD DIRTY SNEAKERS ON HIS FEET ONE LAST TIME. MY PROMISE TO HIM WAS THEREFORE FULFILLED, AND SHORTLY AFTER THAT HE SLIPPED INTO A COMA.

AT 2:30 A.M. HIS CARDIAC MONITOR BEGAN TO BEEP, AND THEN FLATLINED, AND I KNEW IT WAS OVER. I DID NOTHING TO REVIVE HIM. HE'D SIGNED A DNR. I NOTED HIS TIME OF PASSING AND WISHED HIM A SAFE TRIP. HE WAS ON HIS WAY BACK TO HIS FAMILY. I UNHOOKED HIS LINES, REMOVED THE LIFE-SUSTAINING LEADS, AND SHUT DOWN THE ELECTRONICS. I EASED OFF HIS SHOES AND SET THEM ON THE FLOOR BY THE BED. HE WOULD NOT NEED THEM ANYMORE. HE'D DIED 'WITH HIS BOOTS ON', AS HE'D REQUESTED.

THE MONITORS SOUNDED AT THE NURSES' STATION, AND THE NIGHT ATTENDING WALKED OVER TO PRONOUNCE HIM. THE TWO OF US EXCHANGED A FEW WORDS, AND THEN I LEFT, A LITTLE SUBDUED, AND WENT HOME TO A HOT SHOWER, A GLASS OF WINE, AND, EVENTUALLY, BED.

The clinic and research lab were both closed over the long Thanksgiving weekend. I was not in any mood to fight city traffic on this first mad scramble of the holiday season, so I lolled on the couch, snacking and channel surfing. SYFY was playing another rerun of "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan", and I watched it again for the umpteenth time. I admired Leonard Nimoy's tongue-in-cheek portrayal of Spock, and I had actually met Ricardo Montalbahn once, and liked him a lot. I could also recite the movie's dialogue word-for-word, and it amused me to do so.

About 9:00 p.m. I popped a pizza into the oven, poured a tall glass of Coors Light, and thought about Paul Seebold. I would miss him. When the movie was over, I cleaned up the dishes and went to bed early. I slept through the night and on into the morning. Saturday and Sunday I didn't even change out of shorts and tee shirt.

Such an exciting life I lead these days …

Christmases came and Christmases went, and a couple of New Years' came and went … and I was soon looking back at more than three years of residence in the state of Florida. I guessed I was finally getting used to sweltering days and muggy nights and hearing about scorpions, fire ants and Palmetto bugs that the Snowbirds told me were out there. I kept to the city and didn't venture much into critter territory.

On a happier note, the run-ins I'd had with young Bobby Dryden in my early days, turned out better than I could have predicted. The first time I met him, I called his bluff. Took a chance and went with the nasty. Bobby lost his right leg to Ewing's Sarcoma, a small tumor that he'd denied until he couldn't stand the pain any longer (reminded me of someone I knew well …) By then it was too late. The leg had to come off.

His parents brought him to my office the second time to talk about a prosthesis. Bobby sat stubbornly in his wheelchair and refused to speak to me. Again. After his surgery he'd been coddled and protected too much for his own good, and he was used to being waited on like the lord of the castle. He played the 'cripple card' to the hilt and would not do anything that required physical effort on his part. I encouraged him for a short time, but was basically ignored in stony silence. All hell erupted when I finally asked if his Mommy had to help him change his underpanties too …

He banged his fists on the armrests of his wheelchair and screamed at me to "fuck off!" So I left my office, closed the door behind me and left him to cool his heels by himself. The eyes and ears of patients and staff alike turned to me in alarm while Bobby screamed a litany of obscenities, audible all over the clinic, even from behind the closed door. I crossed to the area where his parents were waiting with Dr. Gresh. His mother was ready to cave in, just as he expected her to do.

I touched her sleeve and drew her aside. As gently and urgently as possible, I asked her the question I felt she most needed to hear: "When are you going to let him grow up?"

The woman's eyes met mine, startled and resentful. I lowered my voice so she would know I meant nothing confrontational. "There are things he must learn to do for himself," I said. "You don't wipe his rear end for him, do you?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then let's just wait a minute. By now he's got to be pretty sick of me walking out on him."

When my office door burst open with a crash that sounded like a Mack truck getting hit by a freight train, we knew Bobby had gotten the message. The smart-looking black wheelchair rattled down the hallway in a direct course toward us.

"Now you're getting the idea," I told him smugly before he could open his mouth. "When you're ready to quit pitying yourself and grow up, come back and see me …" I walked back the hallway and brushed past his fancy wheelchair. I closed the office door quietly behind me.

"You're a f-freak!" He stammered.

Six months ago, Bobby Dryden took his first steps on a new leg, and he never called me anything after that but "Sneakers". So much for doctor-patient dignity.

I finally found out that I'd earned the nickname because for some reason I had a talent for walking up to people from behind and scaring the bejazus out of them. I had no idea. I just laughed. It wasn't a bad thing. I quickly got used to being called "Sneakers" by just about everybody. (After that, to my face.)

Six months later, Bobby confided in me that he had asked a girl to a school dance, and she had accepted. Later, he told me the dance had gone well.

They had also done the horizontal Tango …

 _("Did you take the proper precautions?" "What am I … stupid? Of course!")_

We laughed together, and shortly after that I discharged him. I'll miss him, I think.

I began to spend a couple of lunch hours a week in Tom's office. Sometimes Jerry would join us and sometimes not. We would discuss pending cases and current ones, and other times just shoot the breeze about sports, everyday events, or whatever came up. Sometimes with Tom's permission, I would peruse some of the back issues of his collection of medical journals. Even I had no idea there were so many out there.

I like my job. I enjoy my patients and my co-workers. I'm even beginning to get used to living in Florida; bugs and critters notwithstanding. I've been thinking about Gregory House's whereabouts and well-being a little less lately. He's a big boy, dammit.

I also checked out the dating scene. Lots of attractive women in the Palm Beach area. A lot of them spoiled party girls, none of whom had never appealed to me at all. I went on a few dates, and some of them were even fun. But nothing permanent presented itself, and I was okay with that.

I find more gratification when patients who might have died ten years ago go into remission and back to their families with little or no hospital time and a new lease on life. It's nice to be part of that, and I look to the future and wonder if cancer might be eradicated in my lifetime. There are worse ways to be put out of a job. Maybe someday soon I might also find a cure for the persistent melancholy that has followed me and dogged my life for much too long …

Only one thing bothers me, and I wonder if I'm getting to be an alarmist in my old age. I've been invited to Tom and Patti's home for dinner on occasion. I usually accept when asked. I pick up a good bottle of table wine and go over there to enjoy their company and relax.

After dinner, we sit at the table and enjoy the wine and just talk. I've noticed that sometimes Patti looks at me with glances that make me squirm. I don't know if it's me, and I'm unconsciously throwing pheromones, or if there's something there I should shy away from. I've never given her any reason to believe I might be interested in something other than casual friendship, but the hair at the back of my neck sometimes jumps to attention when our gazes meet and I feel like I'm being hit on. Then the moment is gone and she turns away.

I'm sure Tom doesn't see it. He is a gentle, trusting man, and I can't possibly say anything to him about it without hurting him deeply. Should I pull away because of some bizarre suspicion? Am I just seeing things? … having sexual fantasies and seeing a dark seduction taking place where there is none? She's my mother's age, for crying out loud. I think I need to back off and let this fizzle out …

Suddenly it's February and I'm into my fourth year.

Going to be Presidents' Day tomorrow. Valentines' Day was almost a week ago. Patti takes away the lacy hearts and puts up top hats and powdered wigs … something like that … in their place. Next month it'll be Shamrocks and Shillelaghs.

And life goes on.

I got up this morning with a vague sense of foreboding … like a twinge of uneasiness that screws up your head when you feel that someone you know is angry with you for a reason you can't fathom. Or when you get that sense of impending doom when you've forgotten to do something very important … like pay the electric bill and today is 'cut-off' day.

I tried to ignore it, but it persisted. I grabbed my car keys and walked out to ol' Vanna White. I didn't brew coffee or make breakfast. I stopped by the donut shop instead, for a croissant and a cup of their potent coffee. Maybe I could douse my case of the willies with angry caffeine.

When I got to the clinic, it was 7:00 a.m. and the front door was still locked. Ruthie and Ubu were sitting on the front stoop beside the wheelchair ramp, talking. Like me, both had cups of angry coffee in their hands. There were two cars in the parking lot with A/Cs running; both with patients waiting for early morning appointments. Tom and Patti hadn't arrived yet, and neither had Jerry.

"What's happening?" I asked. "Where's everybody?"

I received only shrugs in return. Neither Oob nor Ruthie had any idea. As we stood there gazing around in puzzlement, traffic was picking up and the sun was growing hotter. I pulled out my cell phone to call Tom and Patti, and …

Suddenly the whirr of Jerry Sunday's blue Prius wound down as he careened into Tom's reserved parking space. The car's engine silenced and our colleague jumped out, slammed the door and ran up to us like his tail was on fire.

"Tom's had a heart attack!" He exclaimed. "He and Patti were getting ready for work and she came out of the bathroom and found him in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"She called me and I got to their place just as the EMTs were loading him into the ambulance. She gave me the keys to the office and told me to have someone open up. She's with him on the ambulance and they're headed to JFK Med Center in Boynton. Probably there by now."

Jerry held out the keys to me and asked me to open up and get patients to their appointments. "I'm going to the hospital and stay there until they figure out what's going on. Then I'll be back." He turned to Ruthie and Ubu. You guys need to pinch hit in reception today. Between the two of you, somebody can decipher the filing system and direct patients to where they need to go.

"Sneakers, you have to call in Nance and 'Dori to pinch hit in the clinic. Their cell phone numbers are written down on Patti's desk calendar. Okay?"

I nodded, a little too overwhelmed to comment. We all needed to come together today and keep things "business as usual". I stared at the keys as though I had no idea what they were.

"Hopefully they'll have him stabilized by the time I get there," Jerry continued. "Anyhow, I'll see you as soon as I can. It's gonna be a long day for you, my friend."

"We'll do what needs to be done, Jerry. Get going!"

He turned and ran back to his car, started it and backed out into traffic. He took off like a bat out of hell beneath the sound of squealing brakes and epithets from other drivers and the Doppler effect of blaring horns. The rest of us stood and stared after him as he sped away.

"Tom's been working too hard," Ruthie ventured as the troop of us filed inside the clinic, patients trailing behind us, eager for information we didn't have. "He's here when we come to work in the morning, and sometimes still here when we leave at night. I hope he's okay. I have a feeling we're going to have to hire more staff before long …"

Oob and I nodded agreement as we began to get things together to begin the day with sign-ins and appointments already a half-hour late. Now with the added responsibility of trying to answer questions from patients wanting to know the condition of the doctor they all admired.

A long day indeed.

Tom Gresh was in intensive care for two days. His heart attack had been moderately severe, but so far no invasive action had had to be taken. His doctors were pushing intravenous Heparin with aspirin in order to prevent clots from forming. He was under sedation and the initial treatment would run for a full forty-eight hours. They tested his blood frequently to measure APPT levels and keep bleeding under control. I knew he would be hooked up to enough sensors and monitors that he would look like a human junction box. In addition to that, muscle relaxants would be administered to keep his body calm when he came to consciousness.

Jerry Sunday returned to the clinic just before the end of the work day to let us know the boss had been proclaimed out of danger, but he would be monitored heavily for at least another week. We all heaved a sigh of relief at the news, but we were also exhausted with the work load, the tension, and the unfamiliarity of Patti's filing system. All her passwords were encrypted and none of us had a clue how to get to them. By the end of the day, there was a big pile of handwritten notes in the middle of her desk, weighted down by the Scotch tape dispenser.

For Tom Gresh, his enforced inactivity was a tall order, but he was too weak to protest. Patti remained by his side until ordered by his physician to go home and get some sleep in a real bed.

Reluctantly, Patti agreed to do as she was told. Looking back on it now, I believe her brain became slightly unhinged at that time. She wasn't accustomed to not having Tom at her side constantly, and she became anxious and frightened and maybe even a little paranoid. The next morning she arrived at the clinic early to unlock the passwords and show us how the system worked. Within a half hour everything was transferred from the written notes into each patient's file. She even managed to decipher my own illegible handwriting.

Nancy and 'Dori returned to their offices downtown to catch up there. Ruthie and Ubu retreated to their research lab. Patti and Jerry and I adjourned to my office during a break between patients' appointments. Patti told us she had notified a local Personnel Employment Service and requested two prospective staff members be sent for interviews. She wanted Jerry and me to do the interviewing.

Jerry, that slacker, immediately begged off, claiming he was absolutely no good at that stuff, and a lousy judge of character. "Sneakers can do it a lot better than I can. He's the sweetheart with all the ladies around here. I suck at it, and I hate it. I'll take on the patient overflow until he finds the right person."

I sighed and rolled my eyes.

To my consternation, Patti let him get away with it. "Well, James, I guess it's up to you. You do have a way with the ladies, you know." Her eyes were twinkling and her mouth turned up at one corner. It seemed I was stuck. I shrugged and held up my hands in surrender. She laughed quietly. Very different from the haggard look she'd worn when she walked in that morning.

"I guess I can do the interviewing," I said. "When do you want to start?"

"Whenever they begin to show up. Probably tomorrow. I told the agency we could interview everyone who wanted to apply. It shouldn't take long, but I won't have the time. Tom and I will go along with whomever you choose."

Jerry was already backing away. "Thanks, Boss Lady," he said. "I gotta go now … patients are stacking up by the door. Thanks for the reprieve. Give my best to Tom. I'll stop in to see him as soon as I can." He escaped quickly, closing the office door behind him.

Patti walked slowly across to where I stood beside my desk. She hadn't heard a word Jerry said. I watched as she approached.

She paused, reaching out to place her hands nervously on the back of one of the side chairs. It was like she was using the only solid object nearby to prop herself up. She looked across at me, eyes searching. I frowned, not quite understanding what she intended. Her face was taut and strained from nervous tension and lack of sleep. I didn't know what to say to her, if anything, and so I said nothing. The façade she'd worn since the day I met her had slipped, and I could see every year of her true age radiating from her in waves. There were tears welling in her eyes, spilling over, trailing down her cheeks, smearing her makeup and making me wish I were anywhere on Earth except here. I began to edge behind my desk.

"Jimmy … I'm so scared … what will I do if I lose him?"

"You'll go on," I said lamely. "Just as we all go on after a tragedy. I had to do it years ago when the woman I loved was killed in a street accident. We keep going because we have to. But Tom isn't going anywhere. He's out of danger now, and he'll get better. You'll go on together." I hated the empty words even as they poured from my mouth, but I could think of nothing more appropriate to say.

Her eyes were wide and blank. She wasn't hearing me. She let go of the back of the chair and came closer. I felt a moment's panic. I had nowhere to go in order to get out of her way. I felt every muscle in my body hardening to stone.

 _*OH NO!*_

She kept coming, around the end of the desk, far beyond the limits of personal propriety, and reached up to my shoulders to wrap her arms gently around my neck. Forced into the corner, I could go no further. She was trembling and I found myself drowning in her perfume. My heart thumped wildly as her head fell onto my chest, her warm breath penetrating between the buttons of my dress shirt.

"I do _so_ appreciate your taking over this way, dear Jimmy … I really do …"

"Patti … _please!"_

Nothing happened for a moment. Then she tensed as though waking from a dream.

She backed away slowly, looking into my startled face a moment, like a fox in the henhouse. Then she straightened. Embarrassed, maybe. Or something else … I don't know what. Silent, she turned away. Opened the door and left my office. I heard her footsteps as she stumbled down the hall and away …

I stood frozen, sweating copiously in the air conditioning. My heart thundered like a trip hammer; the rest of me feeling a very strange sense of déjà vu.

 _*I'm back in Princeton, on the sidewalk in front of Lisa Cuddy's ruined house. I'm only a bystander, rising clumsily to my feet, twisting in pain after having been blown off my feet by a runaway car. I stared after it in confusion as it raced up the short driveway and rammed the house with such force that it jumped through the window-wall and foundered to a stop in the middle of the dining room.*_

Now, again, I'm the bystander, ambushed by circumstance and left twisting in the wind. If I'd had a feeling of foreboding this morning, it was now spelling itself out before me. Nothing good could come of this encounter.

Again I'd been left standing … not knowing what had just happened … or why.

Another perpetrator had walked away … except this one wasn't really going anywhere …

222


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

"Where the Wild Goose Goes …"

" _MY HEART KNOWS WHAT THE WILD GOOSE KNOWS …_

" _AND I MUST GO WHERE THE WILD GOOSE GOES .._ "

IT GETS MONOTONOUS DRIVING ALONG A MOSTLY STRAIGHT INTERSTATE HIGHWAY HOUR AFTER HOUR.

WHEN FRANKIE LAINE CAME ON, BUSTING A GUT WITH HIS LUSTY RENDITION OF "THE CRY OF THE WILD GOOSE", I STARTLED MYSELF BACK TO RED ALERT AND STAYED THAT WAY FOR A HUNDRED MILES.

IT'S A BOISTEROUS SONG!

IF WEST VIRGINIA HAS ANYTHING TO WRITE HOME ABOUT, IT'S THE OVERKILL OF HILLBILLY RADIO STATIONS. YOU COULDN'T STICK A PIN BETWEEN THEM ON THE DIAL. I WISHED I HAD SOME TAPES FOR THE CAR'S CASSETTE PLAYER, BUT THEY'RE ALL PACKED AWAY IN PRINCETON. AND THERE'S ALMOST NOPLACE YOU CAN BUY 'EM NEW ANYMORE … THEY ONLY SELL 'EM AT YARD SALES AND FLEA MARKETS. I WOULD HAVE ENJOYED SOME BLUES IF I'D HAD ANY. DAD'S ARE ALL IN PRINCETON.

I THOUGHT FONDLY OF HOOLEY AND HIS BIG FLOOR-MODEL ZENITH, AND SOME OF THE MUSIC WE'D ENJOYED ON IT AND CONVERSATIONS WE HAD ON THE FRONT PORCH OF MY SHACK ON THE BEACH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

 _*AH HELL, HOUSE, DON'T GO GETTING ALL SENTIMENTAL HERE AND DRIVE THE DAMN CAR ONTO THE MEDIAN. YOU PAID SIX GRAND TO GET THE DAMN THING FIXED!*_

I was nearing Morgantown, and I was completely out of clean clothes. My backpak was beginning to look skinny because my dirty laundry was all stuffed into two pillowcases in the trunk. Pillowcases I'd swiped a long time ago from some Holiday Inn or Marriot … I don't even remember anymore.

I was still putting off a visit to someplace where I could buy some traveling clothes; stuff that would be comfortable during long hours on the road. I decided I might as well get off the interstate and get it over with. The wheelchair would be a pain in the ass to wrestle out of the trunk, but I had no choice.

I watched the highway and went off at the Morgantown exit where there was a Motel 6 and a K-Mart and a generic gas station of some sort. I pulled up to the full-service pump at the gas station next to the K-Mart and killed the engine. It was about 5:00 p.m. and the place was teeming.

A young woman in a blue and white uniform stepped out of the office and approached me. She saw my New Jersey 'handicap' license plates and the crutches propped conveniently against the seat. She leaned down near the window and said: "Fill 'er up, sir?"

I said: "Yup … and check up front, okay?" I pulled the lever that released the hood, and she nodded and retreated back to the pumps and the Dynasty's gas tank.

I listened to the nozzle hitting the rim, and the gush of liquid pouring into the tank. While it filled, she lifted the hood and removed the dip stick. I could see her hands between the raised hood and the top of the engine as she checked oil, water, and washer fluid. I started the engine so she could check transmission fluid also. All good. She lowered the hood and latched it firmly. She sloshed the windshield with cleaning fluid and wiped it off, along with the splattered accumulation of bugs, in a flurry of motion. The gas feed snapped off and she lifted the toggle and hung the thing up. Bingo!

I pulled out my wallet and had a hundred dollar bill ready when she approached the drivers' side again. "You're good to go, sir. Up front is good, and your gas comes to 43.50. Can I get you anything else?"

I handed her the money and nodded. "Would you please bring me a bag of candy bars and snacks for the road? Mix 'em up any way you want. I'm not fussy."

She took the bill and grinned. "Sure. Be happy to do that." She turned around and hurried into the office. I watched her fanny undulate as she disappeared inside. What she brought back a minute later was a medium-size brown paper bag stuffed with candy bars, chips and pretzels. I took the bag through the window and waved away the fistful of bills and change. "Keep it," I said. "For your trouble. Thank you."

She beamed. "Jeez … thanks, Mister. You have a good night now … okay?"

I threw her a highball salute, started the car and pulled away from the pump. I saw her in the rear-view mirror, hands in her pockets, looking after me sadly.

If only I hadn't seen that part …

The K Mart excursion was a total pain in the ass. Literally. That is, until I got in there and happened to run into Oliver …

I managed to wrestle the damned wheelchair out of the trunk. Up over the lip and down onto the pavement with a bang. I slid the footrests into place, cocked the right one a little higher, and tossed the crutches in where the chair had been. Hopping around like a human pogo stick, I slammed the trunk lid and launched myself into the chair without setting the brakes. The chair took a leap backward and came to a stop against the bumper of a station wagon even older than the Dynasty. I clutched the backpak in my lap and looked around to get my bearings. This trip was taking its toll. Pain was ramping up. I dug in my shirt pocket for the Vicodin. Stronger than the Immitrax. The hell with the side effects! I popped two of them and settled my hands onto the wheel rims.

Even though I had parked the car in a handicap spot, I still had to run the gauntlet of traffic to get across to the store. Drivers seemed to aim for the wheelchair as though I was some invader to their domain, and two cars buzzed past right behind me by the time I'd located the ramp to get inside.

 _*Jesus!*_

Foot traffic in the store was almost as thoughtless. Always in a hell of a hurry, people cut in front of me and jittered around in the aisles like fleas. They did not watch where they were going or seem to care. They would stop short in front of me to gawk at something, and one asshole turned around to bitch at me when I ran into his ankles. When he saw I was in a wheelchair, he cursed and hurried away in the opposite direction. God, how I hate that! It was a busy store, and I had no clue where anything was.

Finally, I moved off to the side and just sat there looking around in confusion.

I saw the man in the black pants and white shirt walking in my direction, but assumed he would pass by and continue on his way. He was of small stature and moved with a slight limp. He was using a cane. Instantly I began a diagnosis. Couldn't help it. Diagnostics … in my blood. Something haywire in his ankle or lower leg. Or both. Accident; not a disease or affliction.

I put his age at about sixty or so. He was thin and wiry with a hawk nose and trim gray mustache. What hair he had left was silver, and parted in the middle. He walked right up to me and bent over me to hold out his hand. "I'm Oliver Edmonds," he said. "Is there anything I can do to give you a better chance at navigating this circus act? You seem a little reluctant, and people aren't treating you very kindly … if I may be so bold. Are you okay?"

I took his hand and shook it briefly. "I'm … Kyle Calloway. I'm not only confused and sore; I'm totally lost and out of my element. My luggage was stolen from my car about a hundred miles back, and I'm on my way to my daughter's place in Vermont. I didn't have time for the police to track it down, so I need to replace everything from the skin out. I don't know where to start. I seem to be in everybody's way."

I hoped he would swallow my line of bull. It even sounded legitimate to me.

He did. His expression was instantly sympathetic. "I understand completely, Kyle … I do." He pointed to the corner behind me where there stood a large wheelchair equipped with a shopping basket attached to the front. "Are you able to move well enough to transfer across to that chair? You can leave yours here until you get everything you need. I'd be happy to run interference for you."

His offer seemed too good to be true. I looked up at him for a moment, gauging his intent. "Really? I would appreciate that. You seem a lot more familiar with this place than I am. I think I can switch chairs okay if I take it slow. Believe me, Oliver; I can use all the help I can get." More and more I surprise myself by accepting proffered help, and experiencing gratitude for it as well.

"Let's do it then." He pulled the larger chair parallel to mine and held it firmly in place while I lifted my leg down, stood slowly, and hop-stepped across. "Can't take weight, huh? What was it that hurt you, if I may ask …?"

I stared hard at him for a moment, but saw only a pair of kindly dark eyes filled with interest and concern. "Blood clot in my thigh," I said cautiously. "Infarcted. Cut off the circulation. They later debrided and it saved my life, but left me with this." The oversimplification sounded inane, even to my own ears, but Oliver was listening carefully, refraining from sympathetic comment. I was also grateful for that.

"A lot of pain?" He asked simply. We were moving ahead now, turning down one of the men's clothing aisles.

"Oh yeah. Every day. What about you?" What the hell … I wasn't sure if I cared, but I owed him the courtesy of asking …

He paused a moment, blocking the aisle, making people backtrack grudgingly around us. I found some satisfaction in that. "I used to be a jockey," he said. "Believe it or not. The horse I was riding had a fatal heart attack in the backstretch. Dropped dead under me. The rest of the field knocked me into the rail. I hit a metal brace on the infield fence. It shattered my ankle; tibia was broken in nine places. They put me back together with spit and baling wire. It was a long time ago. Early '80s. I've gotten used to it. Pain is intermittent. The nerves fire and then die. Today is one of my better days." He laughed softly without humor. "We have to take what life dishes out, eh?"

I snorted a huff of sarcastic laughter. "Yeah … but I still kick and scream sometimes. Like today. Thirty years is a long time though. Maybe your leg could be surgically repaired now, so you could walk a little better."

Oliver shook his head. "Nothing to repair. What's in there is mostly cold hard steel with synthetic skin stretched over it. Cold in winter, hot in summer. They picked all the bone fragments out with tweezers and threw them in the trash. But I can still walk … a miracle in itself."

I cringed. "Jeezus!"

He pulled back on the handles of the wheelchair and we stopped in the middle of an aisle full of men's underwear. "May as well begin at the beginning," he quipped.

"Yeah … let's …"

I found my size and pulled out three-paks of everything. Nine pairs of gray rag socks, nine tee shirts, nine pairs of gray boxer briefs. Sweat pants and shirts: three of each, dark gray, all they had in my size. Dumped them in the basket and moved on. Men's dress shirts: Four. Dark blue, light blue, white and lavender. Six pairs of blue jeans and two pairs of tan chinos later, and the basket was full to the rim. A few of the slippery plastic wrappers were threatening to slide out onto the floor.

Oliver guided me to the display of small electrics where I picked out an electric beard trimmer and a fancy Gillette razor with a couple packs of extra blades. In 'Cosmetics' I chose a stick deodorant and a bottle of men's cologne. Crammed everything down along the edges of the basket among the socks and underwear and pants and shirts. That should be it. Except maybe a carryall to pack it into once I settled in at a motel.

I sat back and turned to look up. "Do you have plans for this evening, Oliver? Or are you free for the next couple of hours?"

"Nothing specific," he replied. "Why?"

"Well … selfish reason. I'm hungry, I soon have to pee, and I don't know the territory. It would be nice to go somewhere on your recommendation and have a decent dinner. On me … as a thank-you for your help today. If you hadn't shown up, I would probably still be tossed around in the tide and end up getting run over."

He chuckled and looked at me, considering. "I," he finally said, "would be delighted. The motel across the street has an excellent restaurant. I eat there often. But before we do that, I should go down to the sports section and grab a carryall to put this stuff in. If you want to go over to the checkout awhile, I'll get you one. Any color preference? One with wheels?"

I shrugged, looking around for the checkout lane he'd mentioned. "Wheels would be good," I said. "Any color but pink."

He laughed out loud. "Okay. Go to the last register on this side. Lucy will take good care of you." He turned to leave, but I called out sharply …

"How do you know who'll take good care of me? You a regular customer here or something?" I was being funny, but he got me good with his answer.

"I damn-well better be," he said with a huge grin. "I'm the manager …"

I got out of there for a little more than five hundred bucks that day. When I finally arrived at my permanent landing place, wherever that might be, I would have enough stuff to open a small second-hand place of my own. I still had a closetful of clothing locked away in Princeton.

Oliver and I had dinner at the restaurant in the Motel 6 that he'd recommended. While we waited to be served, I looked around the place and liked what I saw.

I was hungry as a bear … for something _not_ made from hamburger or some other throw-away meat. Something good. Stick-to-the-ribs good. I wanted a nice table before me with a nice tablecloth on it and a big menu to order from. Someplace where they give you a glass of ice water the minute you sit down and then ask what else you would like to drink. Service with a smile. Where a waiter or waitress has placed real silverware and a real napkin in front of you. Someplace where you can get a vegetable. Someplace populated with civilized diners and no squally brats running roughshod all over the place …

 _This_ place!

It was called: "The Farmer's Home". The staff knew Oliver well and seated us carefully. His bad leg was toward the wall, and my crutches hung on a hook at my side and I was turned in such a manner that my own messed-up leg was protected from harm beneath the table.

We were sitting near the back of the place where a big window looked out on a country road lined with conifers and deciduous trees in the full bloom of autumn. A few cars passed by on the road, and you would never guess that a busy shopping center lay across the teeming highway in the opposite direction. West Virginia was enjoying a turning of the colors also.

We were quickly served water in frosty glasses, and cups of piping hot coffee in huge Earthenware mugs. There were country creamers and maple sugar packets for embellishment. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

We dined on pig. Roast pork that melted in your mouth like cotton candy. Just enough dark gravy to cover the meat and potatoes and filling, but not enough to flood the plate. Grilled asparagus in a separate dish; chopped, buttered onions smothered in cheese sauce accompanied the asparagus. Sharp and smooth and creamy at the same time. Baked corn that popped between your teeth with liquid ambrosia. Cole slaw dipped with an ice cream scoop so you almost felt like you were taking bites out of a baseball.

For dessert, pumpkin custard pie topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. More of that wonderful coffee. The only other time I had tasted food created in this manner was at Aunt Sarah's place around Christmastime when I was a kid. It was almost orgasmic, and I had to loosen my belt two notches.

I don't think Oliver was in much better shape than I was.

"When you said this was a good restaurant, you weren't kidding," I told him.

"Yeah. I know," he replied. "My wife used to run this place. Most of the recipes were hers. When I get lonely for her, I come here. I always bring friends from out of town here …"

His words were tinged with regret and loss. "She's gone, isn't she?" I asked boldly. I decided he would still feel as bad if I had asked the question in a more reverent manner."

"She is." Oliver said. "Cancer. Five years ago."

"I'm sorry …"

"Don't be. She wouldn't like it, and I need to keep going until we meet up again."

"What was her name?"

"Emily. Emmy Edmonds. Are you married, Kyle?"

I shook my head and held up my naked left ring finger. "No. Not now. I was for a while, but it didn't take. She left, and I have no idea where she is now."

"Ah," he said. "But you have your daughter in Vermont …"

I was about to say "huh?" … but remembered my cock'n'bull story to him earlier. "Yeah … her name is Dominika. She has a daughter too." I thought of Rachael Cuddy and swallowed the lump in my throat. I had liked that little rug rat in spite of myself. She wouldn't be so little now …

The evening ended on a rather minor note after that.

At that moment, I would have given anything I owned for one of Hooley's cigars and an hour's smutty conversation on the cabin's front porch.

When we left there, I slipped a folded fifty beneath the edge of my coffee cup when I went to pay the check. The meal and the service and the company, plus the enormous bill, had been worth every penny. I had made a new friend, shared a few moments of sorrow, and learned another valuable lesson: people are pretty much like animals in large groups. But when you meet them one-on-one, they're wonderfully goodhearted. They also have problems and regrets and heartaches, just like the rest of us.

This business of practicing to be a gentleman isn't such a bad gig after all.

Maybe.

229


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

"Hitch in the Git-Along"

I WAS ON INTERSTATE 81, HEADING NORTH AND GETTING PRETTY CLOSE TO SCRANTON, PA.

THE WEATHER WAS TURNING COLDER AND THE DYNASTY'S HEATER STRUGGLED TO KEEP UP. MOUNTAINS RISING ON BOTH SIDES OF THE ROAD WERE TURNING COLOR AS AUTUMN GAINED A FOOTHOLD ON THE LAND. BEAUTIFUL IN THE MORNING SUNLIGHT, BUT FRIGID LOOKING AS I PEERED THROUGH THE DISSIPATING MISTS OF MID-MORNING. I PUNCHED THE DEFROST CONTROL AND THE HEATER RESPONDED WITH A RENEWAL OF HEAT THAT SHIFTED FROM THE FLOOR TO THE WINDSHIELD.

I SHOULD STOP SOON. I STAYED AT A HOLIDAY INN IN HAGERSTOWN THE NIGHT BEFORE, GASSED UP THE CAR AGAIN AFTER A QUICK BREAKFAST, AND GOT BACK ON THE ROAD FOR AN EARLY START. I BEGAN TO FEEL SLIGHTLY QUEASY IN THE GUT ABOUT AN HOUR AFTER THAT, BUT EVEN MY STUBBORN DIAGNOSTIC BENT COULDN'T PUT A FINGER ON IT. I DECIDED I WAS OVERTHINKING THE PROBLEM … IF THERE EVEN WAS A PROBLEM. I WASN'T "SICK" SICK, BUT I WASN'T 'FINE' EITHER. JUST A VAGUE MALAISE THAT LET ME KNOW SOMETHING WASN'T QUITE COPASETIC.

MY SOCK FOOT WAS COLD AGAIN, AND A BURNING PAIN WAS BEGINNING ON THE SOLE OF THE FOOT, JUST BEHIND MY TOES. IT SOON PROGRESSED TO THE POINT THAT IT WAS BOTHERSOME ENOUGH TO MAKE MY LEG TWITCH WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT, AND THAT WASN'T GOOD AT ALL. I SUDDENLY REALIZED WHAT IT WAS WHEN THE BALL OF MY FOOT BEGAN TO FEEL AS THOUGH I WAS BEING STABBED WITH A FISTFUL OF TOOTH-PICKS. I HADN'T HAD THIS PROBLEM SINCE I WAS IN BARBADOS AND DISCOVERING I WAS SLOWLY BEGINNING TO LOSE THE USE OF MY LEG. HOOLEY HAD GIVEN ME A PRESCRIPTION, BUT WHEN THE PAIN BEGAN TO LESSEN, I PUT THE PILLS IN MY BACKPAK AND FORGOT ABOUT THEM.

 _*SON OF A BITCH … THE NEUROPATHY IS BACK! I'M_ _ **NOT**_ _A DIABETIC. HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT?*_

 _*BETTER LAY OFF THE JUNK FOOD, ASSHOLE … OR YOU WILL BE!*_

I SWITCHED THE HEATER BACK TO FLOOR LEVEL AGAIN AND MY FOOT SLOWLY WARMED UP. WHAT IT DIDN'T DO THOUGH, WAS STOP THE NERVE JABS. THE WASPISH STABBING PAINS CONTINUED, MAKING ME FLINCH EVERY TIME ONE OF THEM HIT. NEEDLE THRUSTS PIERCED THE BALL OF MY FOOT, MOVING BACKWARD ALONG THE PLANTAR RIDGE. ICE PICKS PENETRATED MY ARCH AND FORCED MY FOOT TO CRAMP INWARD. I WAS IN DANGER OF LOSING CONCENTRATION TO THE PAINFUL SPASMS AND RUNNING THE DAMN CAR OFF THE ROAD IF IT DIDN'T STOP SOON. I NEEDED TO GET THE LYRICA VIAL OUT OF THE BACKPAK ...

When I came off the interstate at a place called "Nay Aug Park", I stared at the sign, wondering what the hell a "Nay Aug" was. I turned in that direction, hoping it might be some kind of picnic area with tables; secluded benches where I could sit alone and rest. Use the medication and wait for the stabbing sensations to ease and make the pain withdraw.

Nay Aug was indeed a park. It had spaces for about ten cars in the area where I pulled in. There was only one other vehicle there, and it was empty. There were enough bushes and trees about, so it was easy to find a space at the far end where I could medicate myself without being bothered.

I released the trunk lid from inside, opened the car door and settled the crutches painfully beneath me. This would not be easy. I felt lightheaded and a little too warm for the outside temperature. The brute strength of the crutches was the only thing keeping me upright. I made my way around to the back and lifted the trunk lid to its limit. It was an effort to keep my foot clear of the ground, because my leg was not cooperating either. My knee was weak and I could feel the strain at the joint. I reached beneath the two big K Mart bags, the new carryall and the pillowcases filled with dirty laundry. I fumbled around under the folded wheelchair and pulled the backpak loose.

Desperately I searched its pockets and zipper compartments until I finally found the pill container. I flipped off the lid, took two capsules and threw back my head to dog-swallow. Leaning against the fender, I propped myself against one of the taillights. Vertigo overtook me for a moment and my sock foot inadvertently hit the ground. Pain shot up my leg and I cried out before I could stop myself. Lightning bolts stung my thigh and pounded at my nervous system to the point of nearly buckling my other leg.

By the time I slammed the trunk lid down, hobbled back to the front seat and worked myself inside, I had dragged the backpak with me and slid it across to the passenger seat. I needed to keep it near me. I was shaking like a leaf in the wind, partly from the leg pain and partly from the headache that was starting to develop between my ears.

I sat shaking all over with my head against the top of the steering wheel and my arms wrapped around my middle. I did not move or make another sound for an incredibly long interval of time. I concentrated on regulating my breathing to keep it under control so it would not jar my body.

The waves of pain finally began to diminish as the meds took effect and I sat there like a stone. My nervous system calmed down by increments and my body began to relax away from the rigid control. I started the car and ran the heater.

Fifteen minutes passed. Four people returned to the car that was parked on the opposite side from me. They looked across to the Dynasty, but I was of no interest to them. Shortly after that the car left. I was dreading to be discovered mewling around in the front seat, so I put it in gear and slowly pulled out.

I retraced my tracks back to Route 81 and turned north again. Stopped at a full-service station in a town called Moosic to gas up and then got right back on the road. I would find a place to hole up when I crossed the New York state line. If I could make it to Binghamton, I would stay over for a few days so I could sleep and regain strength.

Binghamton had a Comfort Inn with a handicap suite, and I checked in to the place late that evening. I was half giddy with pain and so tired I couldn't see straight. I knew I shouldn't be on the road. I didn't know what time it was; didn't care.

A beautiful black woman with dusky skin and tiny black diamonds for eyes, checked me in and looked me over like she was my mother. "Are you all right? You're in pain, aren't you? You look _awful!_ " Her voice was like a crush of purple velvet, and I let myself get lost in it.

I feared I must look like something the cats dragged in. I lowered my head to the side and smirked in embarrassment. "Didn't think anyone would notice," I said softly; sarcastically. "If you have a room with handicap accommodations, I'll need it for about three days … so I can go in there and fall down."

I leaned on the counter and dropped the backpak on the floor with a thump. "I'm … tired."

"You're _really_ in pain," she said softly. There were other people in the lobby and she was trying to keep it low key.

"Yeah …"

I saw her push a buzzer beside the house phone as she indicated the register where I should sign my name. I did so and slowly straightened.

The phone rang … in-house. She answered. "Samuel? Man on crutches. Need a Wheelchair. Desk. Now." And hung up.

I stared at her stupidly.

She stared back. "Someone will be right here to show you to your room."

Immediately I saw a man advancing toward me pushing a large wheelchair. Ebony-Eyes hadn't wasted any time. He was taller than me. His head was bald. His eyes were hazel. He wore a small gold ring in his left ear and a much larger diamond ring on his right pinkie. He looked a hell of a lot like Mister Clean, but he wore black pants, black shoes and a white dress shirt. I decided I wouldn't want to tangle with him. He was efficient and surprisingly gentle. He pushed the wheelchair behind me and assisted me expertly into it. He extended the right leg rest and placed my leg upon it with extreme care. I sighed and melted gratefully backward. He picked up the crutches and the backpak.

The chair turned around in slow motion and he pushed it, with me in it, back down the same hallway from which he had come.

People in the lobby went quiet and stopped what they were doing until we went around a corner. After that I heard the conversations resume.

"Mister Clean" closed the door to my room and set crutches and backpak on the floor near the bed. He lowered the leg rest … and my leg … until my sock foot was nearly touching the floor, but not.

He did not speak. He reached both arms out to me and steadied me until I could get out of the chair and swing around onto the mattress. He assisted me in removing my jacket and lifted both my legs onto the surface until I was lying flat; almost comfortable. He removed my left shoe and elevated my right leg on the second bed pillow.

"How do you feel?" They were the first words he had spoken, and his voice was deep and resonant. I stared at his face a moment and saw a friendly twinkle light up behind his eyes … kind of like Wilson when he was trying not to betray that he was worried.

"Rotten," I said. "To be perfectly honest, I feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck. Thank you for giving me a hand. I don't think I could have done this by myself."

"I know you couldn't," he said candidly. "You look like Wiley Post after he's flown nonstop from Alaska."

"Really? That bad?" I found that I was willing to play along. It was nice to lie flat. My world had finally stopped swimming around me …

"Yeah, really. That bad." He walked around the suite, closing the curtains for the evening, pushing the wheelchair into a corner, and turning on a few dim, ambient lights, just enough to lift the gloom and keeping me from breaking my neck in the dark if I needed to get up. Finally finished, he turned and came back to my side, picked up the blanket at the foot of the bed and spread it across my lower body. "Are you warm enough?"

I nodded, watching him. "Yeah. Thanks." My brain was still a little out of focus.

He lingered. "Do you have luggage other than the backpak? I'll bring it in if you do."

"Yeah. In my car." I sighed and told him the story about the "stolen" suitcases and the replacement stuff still in department-store bags in my trunk.

He grinned. "You have some interesting problems, don't you?"

I grimaced. "Tell me about it! My car keys are in the front pocket of the backpak. And my car … well … it's not your father's Oldsmobile …"

He stared at me with a frown. "Huh?"

"It's a 1989 Dodge Dynasty. Dark blue. White walls. Handicap license plates. (I still had not changed them.) It's parked in the handicap spot out front … you might want to move it … but be careful … it's set up with hand controls …"

He knelt to the backpak and removed my key chain from the zippered compartment. "These?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, I'm going. I shall be back forthwith. Stay put … and rest."

"Yeah … I'm not goin' anywhere …"

I must have dozed. The rap on the door was insistent.

" _Sir? Are you all right in there? Mister Calloway?"_

He must have talked to Ebony Eyes. He knew my name. (My Pseudo name …)

I called out, but I guess I was too late. He was no longer there. I sat up and looked around. It was full dark now, and the room looked a little like a mausoleum. Dim lights lined the walls about baseboard height, as well as the ones plugged into nearly every receptacle. I sat up and turned on the light beside the bed. A circle of illumination made a small pool on the carpet and bed linens.

I dragged both legs to the edge of the mattress and prepared to stand up. I had to _go!_

A key in the door made me pause and look up.

Standing in the light from the hallway was my tall guardian. He shoved the door open and strode inside. "Are you okay?" He asked in a worried tone. "I didn't have your door key a while ago. I knocked and called out, but you didn't hear me. I went back to get the spare key from the front desk."

I nodded. "I'm fine," I said. "I must have dozed off. Sorry …"

"Don't apologize. My fault. I have your stuff … it's out here in the hallway."

"Okay. I guess you can bring it in now … but I gotta go take a leak …"

He was beside me in two long steps. He picked up my crutches and settled one beneath each of my arms. "Be careful … don't fall …"

"I won't, Mom," I said sarcastically. "What is your name anyhow? You already know mine …"

"My name is Samuel. Samuel Adams, if you can believe that." He stepped back and motioned me in the direction of the bathroom. "I'll bring everything in while you're taking care of business …"

I started across the short-pile carpet, enjoying its soft nap beneath my good foot. "Nice to know you, Samuel Adams. I can believe it. It's a very honorable moniker. They named a beer after you …" I entered the head and slammed the door.

Behind me I could hear him laughing.

The wheelchair Willy Ortiz had put in my car stood in the middle of the bedroom. Both leg rests were reattached and pulled up level. Piled on top were the two huge K Mart shopping bags, the new carryall, my old decrepit cane, and two big pillow cases crammed with stinky laundry. I hobbled over to the bed and sat down, staring at the strange parade float piled in front of me.

Samuel came back in the door with a steaming mug of coffee in each hand. "Took the key back to the desk," he announced. "Rebecca thought you might like some coffee …"

I reached out with a grin. "Come to Papa!"

"I wasn't exactly sure what-all you needed from the car," he continued. "I already knew you came in on crutches with just the backpak. So, I brought everything but the spare tire. Your chair is in much better condition than the monster we keep at the hotel. You can use yours while you're here. We don't want you almost passing out again. I thought you might be more comfortable if you didn't have to do the crutches for awhile. Is that all right?"

"It's not only all right, it will be great to be off my feet and still be able to move around. "You're good. You knew what things were like for me even before you met me."

He laughed softly. "I know _exactly_ what it's like for you, Kyle Calloway. It's part of my job to assist anyone who comes in here with a disability. It was the same for me until three years ago. When I started to work here, I was in a wheelchair all the time."

"Would you like to explain that? You look healthy as a horse to me."

"I am." He stared at me, searching for a reaction.

When there was nothing from me except a puzzled frown, he pulled up his left pantleg to reveal a sculpted pillar of prosthesis that very closely resembled a real limb. As he hiked his pants above his knee, more metal was uncovered, and a stainless-steel-and-silicon knee joint gleamed before my startled eyes. "The amputation was right above my knee. All the mechanics are so accurate that I can use it exactly like it's my own. I can run."

At first I was speechless. This man was the third person I'd met in my recent travels who had injuries very similar to my own. Was this coincidence? Or providence? Both were hard as hell to believe.

"How?" I asked. Chills were cascading down my spine. As a doctor, I should have caught a hint from his gait. But I didn't. There was no indication that he wasn't as physically whole as any healthy middle-aged man.

"I found the right medical team," he said. "They've been doing research and trying out new methods for years. Will you tell me what happened to you?"

So I told a complete stranger the entire sordid mess … again … from infarction days to my present-day misery. No lies, no hiding from the truth. I recounted all of it. I admitted that I was still running away from my past, and the horrible mess I'd made of my profession and my life. I admitted to the pain I endured daily, and the three surgeries that had finally turned me into a full-time cripple.

"Tell me what happened to you, Samuel … and tell me about this medical team."

He'd been skiing, he said. Doing practice runs for the upcoming Olympics, and in serious contention for the men's downhill. His left ski hit a rock buried beneath a layer of powder. It curved inward and splintered, and he careened off the trail and into a stand of pines beyond the barrier. His lower leg was deeply gashed, broken in three places; his knee badly wrenched. Most of the damage was on the inside. ACL, LCL, lateral meniscus, cracked patella. He was in the hospital three months; in traction for one. The breaks wouldn't heal. Infection after infection. Septicemia set in. His leg had to be amputated above the knee. His Olympic career never happened. Prostheses would not work either: only made his stump sore and caused further infection. He was devastated. Thought about suicide.

One day his doctor told him about a team doing breakthrough work at a small medical center in Lebanon, New Hampshire. "Marvelous strides being taken …" and all that …

I was disappointed. Not to demean Samuel's personal tragedy, but his situation was nothing like mine. Mine was a blood clot and dead muscle. His was a skiing accident. He said: "Nothing to do with the way the injury happened. What it has to do with is the work this team is doing with prosthetics. They have been testing electronic sensors. Bio-sensors, if you will, and I have one of their early ones. By now they'll be much improved. Maybe you could take the time to check them out. Head doctor's name is Ed Thoreau. Wouldn't hurt, Kyle. They performed a miracle for me …"

Samuel took the time to write down the name and address and phone number of the hospital. I stared at it, intending to throw it away as soon as his back was turned. Then I thought: 'Why-the-hell-not!?' I was heading in that direction anyway. New England was New England. If I got off Route 81 North and switched to 88 East, I could be in New Hampshire inside of another day or so.

I had to do some heavy thinking. If I took a chance on this and it worked, maybe my life would change for the better. If it didn't work … same old same old … nothing ventured, nothing gained …

We laughed and sipped. I said a simple "thank you", and it was all good. I still had no stomach for solid food, but I found that I felt much better after landing somewhere and having a chance to rest; dig my face into a soft pillow and snore for an hour or so. The coffee was a good start. I'd never had a problem with coffee keeping me awake. Quite the opposite. Accommodating metabolism, I guess …

"Just what, exactly, do you do around here? I haven't figured that out yet."

He looked at me strangely for a moment before he answered. "You know," he began, "I'm not even sure if there's an answer to that. I guess you could call me Concierge. Doorkeeper, janitor, diplomat, chauffeur, yes-man, babysitter, whipping boy. When somebody needs something, that's where I go. I've been at it about seven years now, and the job's never boring."

I looked at him and considered for a moment. "You're Leonardo DiVinci." I said. "You do _everything._ "

He laughed. "I like that. Someday when I decide to travel the universe again, maybe I'll give you a call and you can come along …"

"Sold!"

When he left, he was carrying the two pillowcases full of dirty clothes. "I'll just take these down to Molly. She'll do them up for you so you don't have to sit around in a coin laundry somewhere …"

In my handicap bathroom there was a hot tub with low-level jets spurting hot water through little conduits that pummeled you from all four sides. I sat in there at least twenty minutes that night and soaked up the steady stream of a wet rat-a-tat massage that lulled me gently from side to side and turned me into a middle-age prune balloon. It palpated my weary body and babied my leg like the pouty infant that it is. I simply floated around in the marvelous heat and heavenly buoyancy.

When I finally heaved myself out of there, I turned the water off, wrapped a huge Turkish towel around my body and sat hunched in stupefied oblivion under the bedcovers for another … however long it was.

I only moved when the house phone rang and the pretty lady with the black-jewel eyes purred my name and asked how I was, and if I might be hungry.

I assured her I was fine … _*Rebecca?*_ … and opined that maybe by this time I would probably enjoy something to eat … _*_ _ **I'm STARVING!***_

"A cup of clam chowder then. Perhaps broiled chicken. A small baked potato? Baby peas sautéed with baby onions. Butterscotch pie for dessert and a very large mug of coffee for enders … ?"

I sighed. She really should shut up now, before I started drooling. She giggled softly, and I believe she knew exactly what she had just done. "Give us a few minutes, okay? Get decent!" And she hung up.

I ran a comb through my hair and pulled the tags off new skivvies and new sweats. No socks, no shoe … my ankle was seriously turned inward again.

Samuel arrived awhile later, and I was a little disappointed that Rebecca wasn't with him. "I think she went home," he said. "She has a husband and a three-year-old."

He helped me transfer to the wheelchair and placed a dinner tray across the armrests.

I attacked the food. It was delicious. Finally slowed down and finished the pie, incredible-bite-by-incredible-bite. Samuel sat and watched me while demolishing a big hamburger in the time it took me to do the Clam Chowder. I was in heaven with the pie, which I should have refused, but didn't. Afterward I felt better, and a pair of Immitrax tamed the leg again. At least temporarily.

Afterward, Samuel told me a little more about his experience at the Med Center in New Hampshire, and I hung on every word, by now interested and totally curious.

We talked for another half-hour, but I began to wind down again before my second mug of coffee was empty. Samuel noticed. He turned down the covers of my bed and adjusted the pillow where I would rest my leg. "Let me help you out of that thing and get you into bed. You're gonna sleep like a rock tonight."

"Yeah …"

He picked up the dirty dishes, turned off the overhead light and left quietly. I reached to the night stand where I had gathered my pill bottles. Took a Lyrica. Left the Vicodin alone.

By 9:30 p.m. I was out like a light. Or maybe that was just the last time I looked at my watch.

I stayed at the Comfort Inn for three days, rolling around here and there, spending time with Samuel and Rebecca; talking about their work at the hotel and being introduced to other staff members who joined in the conspiracy to keep an eye on me. Only this time I didn't mind. I enjoyed their company and their conversations, and I cursed myself for not trying to make this sea change of mine a long time ago.

I was beginning to find that sometimes a good remedy for chronic pain is … people.

The day I left, the gal called Molly came to my room with a laundry cart. In it was all my older clothing; washed, folded, grouped together. The sport shirts were even ironed, something I never did for myself. I thanked her profusely when she leaned down to hug me. I felt myself turning fiery red, but still had the presence of mind to slip a fifty into the pocket of her apron.

Part of my 'rest-up' time I'd spent on my laptop, looking up the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in the Connecticut River Valley of New Hampshire. The more I read, the more certain I became that I should go there and look over the place for myself. I'm totally sick of being unable to walk, and sicker still of the one thing I had not been able to wean my anger away from … the downcast, embarrassed curiosity of strangers who still stared in pity and disgust at the cripple.

I put the finishing touches on an article I'd written for JAMA … yeah, the Big Boy of all medical journals. If Wilson did not tumble to this one and get a little curious, then I would drop the trickery and set him free. I would chalk him up to one more failure by the misanthropic Gregory House and count my losses in (probably) reminiscences of regret, and never try to contact his girly ass again.

By the fourth day I was feeling much better, painful leg notwithstanding. I could not walk for a time. My balance was shot, and the crutches lay idle while I flitted around in the wheelchair and drove the staffers crazy. The neuropathy in my foot lessened a little during that time, but didn't quite go away. My ankle relaxed slightly and the ligaments pulled inward a little less.

I was finally ready to head north again; load my new and freshly laundered clothing into the carryall. Samuel loaded the carryall and the wheelchair into the trunk. I would keep the backpak up front with me from now on after I got back on the road.

The difference this time was that I had a real destination. I was going to do something positive for _me_ that had been put off much too long. I would search for competent medical attention for my disability, and find out if the thing I had always dreaded the most, really had to happen.

The last time I spoke to Samuel, he was delighted that I was going to look up Ed Thoreau and his team. I told him that I would like to tell Thoreau about the person who had recommended him to me. I asked Samuel if there was a message of some kind that he would like me to deliver …

The big man stood up straight and said: "Just tell him that Samuel said his middle name was "Clemens".

We were both laughing when I put the Dynasty in 'drive' and pulled out on the road that led back to 81 North.

239


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

"Wife Number Four"

I WENT TO SEE DR. GRESH IN THE HOSPITAL THAT FRIDAY NIGHT, AS SOON AS HIS DOCORS SAID IT WAS OKAY FOR HIM TO HAVE OUTSIDE VISITORS. I WAS THE LAST TO GO. JERRY SUNDAY HAD STUCK CLOSE ALL ALONG BECAUSE HE WAS WORRIED FOR HIS FRIEND, AND HIS PRESENCE THERE WAS GOOD FOR TOM. OOB AND RUTHIE VISITED TOGETHER A DAY OR TWO LATER, AND NANCY AND 'DORI SHORTLY THEREAFTER. BY THE TIME I COULD LEAVE THE CLINIC IN THE HANDS OF TWO NEW HIRES AND STOP BY THE HOSPITAL FOR A WHILE, TOM WAS RESTLESS AND ALERT AND ANTSY TO GET OUT OF THERE.

HE WAS STILL HOOKED UP TO IVS AND MONITORS. THAT WAS TO BE EXPECTED. HE COULD GET OUT OF BED WITH HIS ROLLING STAUNCHION AND GO TO THE HEAD AND BACK WITHOUT BEING BERATED BY ANY OF THE NURSES FOR WANDERING AWAY. WHEN I VISITED, HE WAS IN A PRIVATE ROOM AND THE HEAD OF HIS BED WAS RAISED. SOME OF THE COLOR HAD RETURNED TO HIS FACE.

PATTI SAT IN A CHAIR BY HIS SIDE AND HELD HIS HAND AS THOUGH HE MIGHT TRY TO GET UP AND BOLT AWAY FROM THERE IF SHE LET GO. WHEN I WALKED IN, SHE LOOKED AT ME WITH A DESPERATE KIND OF PLEA IN HER EYES. LIKE A TRAPPED BIRD IN A CAGE. DID SHE THINK I WAS GOING TO STAND THERE AND RAT TO HER HUSBAND THAT SHE HAD MADE A PASS AT ME THE WEEK BEFORE? NOT A CHANCE!

"HOW ARE YOU, TOM? YOU HAD ALL OF US WORRIED."

"DON'T BE WORRYING ABOUT ME, JAMES," HE SAID. "YOU'VE BEEN SADDLED WITH THE BULK OF THE HEAVY STUFF. I'LL BE FINE IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS, AND I CAN'T TELL YOU HOW MUCH I APPRECIATE ALL YOU'VE DONE TO HELP KEEP THE PLACE UP AND RUNNING."

"I WAS JUST DOING WHAT HAD TO BE DONE. RUTHIE AND OOB HAVE HAD MY BACK ALL THE WAY, AND I GUESS YOU ALREADY KNOW WE'VE HIRED TWO NEW PEOPLE TO TAKE OVER PATTI'S JOB AND HOLD DOWN THE FORT. SHE'S A HARD WOMAN TO REPLACE, YOU KNOW …"

I FELT HER EYES BORING INTO ME LIKE TWIN SABERS.

TOM SMILED. "YEAH, I KNOW THAT ONLY TOO WELL. HOW ARE THE NEWBIES WORKING OUT?"

"THEY'RE FINE. THEY LEARNED THE SYSTEM QUICKLY. THEY JUST HAVE TO BECOME MORE FAMILIAR WITH LOCATING SOME OF THE INFORMATION IN THERE, AND GET TO KNOW THE PEOPLE FROM THE OUTSIDE AGENCIES WE DEAL WITH. IN ANOTHER WEEK THEY'LL BE GOOD TO GO." I WATCHED PATTI'S FACE WHILE I WAS TALKING, BUT HER HEAD DROPPED DOWN AND HER EYES WERE EVERYWHERE BUT ON ME. I WASN'T SURE HOW TO TAKE THAT, BUT I DECIDED IT WAS BEST LEFT ALONE FOR NOW.

I CHATTED SMALL TALK WITH TOM A WHILE LONGER, AND THEN GOT UP AND LEFT AS SOON AS I COULD REASONABLY DO SO. I HAD A FEELING THIS BUSINESS WASN'T OVER YET …

I'd asked Tom Gresh some time ago for his permission to peruse some of the hundreds of volumes of medical history that filled the bookcases along the walls of his big office. To my astonishment, he gave me not only permission, but slipped me a key to his office door to allow me entrance even when he wasn't there. I felt especially fortunate, since I knew such access had not been granted to others; not even Jerry.

I did not abuse the privilege, and visited the collection only about once a week on my lunch break when the office was open and the staff would be gathered there anyway. But now, while he was in the hospital, I sometimes stayed late and took full advantage of the opportunity to study the titles of the books and read some of the more obscure medical journals from all over the world.

Once in a while I would pick out texts at random, but most of the time I could browse and choose. I could visit the older volumes, some of which were fragile and hermetically sealed; their pages available only on microfilm. These were the books of historic significance and the ones that thrilled me the most. From these, one could trace the evolution of medical history page-by-page, almost from ancient times to the modern age. I could seek out some of the earliest cancer cases … back when doctors did not know what the disease was … sometimes using ugly and inhumane methods to 'drive the cancer out' …

Some of it was chilling and made me shudder, but I remained anxious to follow the progression.

I decided to visit again one evening after the clinic was locked down and silent, and I would have the privacy to let my fingers do the walking, so to speak.

It was late. The place was dark, and so quiet I could almost feel the pulse of the night. Interior lights were all on station and the security alarm was turned on. I was sitting in Tom's chair at the desk. I'd put away the old cancer cases I'd been studying because some of them made my skin crawl. I had chosen another book at random, and was paging through it. It was part of a two-volume work by Ulysses S. Grant, who had written his memoirs while he was dying of throat cancer. The set was published by Mark Twain in 1885.

I leafed slowly through the old book, reading snatches here and there and turning the yellowed pages carefully. Grant had been an intelligent and concise writer, not committed to the flowery phrases of the era. His literary voice was authoritative and commanding, and I found myself intrigued with the entire narrative.

Fascinated by descriptions of Civil War battles and Lee's dignified surrender at Appomattox, I immersed myself completely. When I looked at my watch, I was astounded to realize that almost two hours had flown past me and I had hardly made a dent in the first volume.

With reluctance I set the book aside for another time, stretched my shoulders and turned to the pile of medical journals I'd pulled from the collection. One or two of these, and I would head for home and bed. There were five in the pile before me, most published within a ten-year range, but not necessarily up to date. I always liked to keep up with these, but my own upheavals of recent years caused me to relax my vigil. All my subscriptions had lapsed.

I had a copy of 'California Clinical Controversies' that I had never heard of before; a copy of 'JAMA', 'The Lancer', 'The New England Journal', and 'The Journal of Emergency Medicine'.

I lifted the unfamiliar one off the pile and turned back the front cover.

Suddenly, in the still of night, there came a vibration and a loud click that killed the security system and about scared me out of my shoes. The office door opened slowly. I looked up.

"Patti? What are you doing here? Did you turn the alarm off?"

"Yes. I was at the hospital and drove by on the way home. I saw the light on, and I …"

I held my hand up, palm extended. "Whoa! No one can tell there's a light on, even from the hallway. Why are you here? Is Tom all right?"

She moved further inside, pushed the door closed behind her and walked across to where I was sitting at the desk. She leaned both arms seductively on the top of it. Obviously she knew I could see every-thing she normally concealed behind the front of her low-cut dress and black designer bra. She smiled. "Tom is fine. I just wanted to see if you were here. I knew you were working extra hours to help out while he's in the hospital, and I thought …"

"Thought what?" I asked gently, heaving to my feet. I was afraid of what the answer might be.

"I wanted to see you."

I sighed. My spinal column was radiating warning signals of an electrical nature.

 _*Christ!*_

This foolish drama must be nipped at its root before it grew any longer. I held a great admiration for Thomas Gresh, and respected him as an employer. The thought that his wife might find me attractive had never occurred to me. They both knew I'd been married three times with each of those unions ending in failure. Maybe Patti felt a little daring and presumed that I might be open to any willing prospect that came along and showed interest. I had to admit: she was a knockout at any age.

I shoved the chair back, warning her off by pushing outward with both palms to keep her literally at arms' length.

Patti must have taken that gesture to mean something else entirely. She straightened from her desk-top pose very quickly and almost threw herself past the physical barriers and into my arms.

I gasped as she pushed her way against my chest.

Both of us nearly landed on the floor with our limbs tangled together. I tripped over one of the legs of the chair … the kind with casters … and we did a mad tango of scrambling to keep from going down in a heap. I regained a precarious balance by grabbing the edge of the desk and the back of the chair, and fought my way upright. I then removed her arms from around my shoulders and pushed her away from me. Gently but firmly. All I could think of was getting the hell out of there.

"Don't do this, Patti. You don't know what you're asking. It's not right. I won't be responsible for this ..."

She turned accusatory very quickly. (Woman scorned?) "What do you mean … 'something like this'?"

I met her look. "Deception."

"Is that what you think this is?"

"If it's not, then what is it?"

She was beginning to cry; a woman's most effective weapon. Her mascara made black tracks down her cheeks. Just what I didn't need: tears and makeup all over my shirt and tie. I backed away and halted at the opposite end of the desk.

She looked at me through tears of resentment and regret. "Tom is tedious … and boring. Don't you see, James? He's old and sick and it frightens me. I don't want to be that way too. I'm drawn to you. I was sure you felt it too. Don't you care? I need some real love in my life before it's over …"

"My God, Patti! Listen to yourself! You _have_ love in your life. Tom. Sure I care. But I care about _both_ of you. This is no time to start something you can't end. I don't want this and neither do you. You're a beautiful woman, Patti. I'm not blind. But we can't do this. I'm not in love with you. I like you, and I respect you, but a love affair between the two of us is impossible."

I knew I was babbling; trying to talk my way out, spouting words with little meaning. She looked at me with vacant eyes and I kept going.

"Tom loves you. He told me so. He told me how you've always worked side-by-side with him. He told me how you helped set up this room and everything in it. He said it took both of you over a year of working together, and he's proud of that …"

"He did?"

"Yes. He did."

"He never told me that."

"Sometimes men are thoughtless about the wrong things. He probably assumed that you knew. Don't do this to him. Please. It's time for you to go home now. Right now. Get a good night's sleep and start over in the morning …"

 _*Good heavens … I sound like Dear Abby!*_

Patti gathered herself and wiped her eyes daintily with the tip of a linen handkerchief. Her face was splotched from crying, and the pink of her cheeks was beginning to run, turning a sickly grayish hue. She looked at me blandly; the look of a lost child.

And I knew what it was. It jumped out at me like a bird, suddenly frightened out of a tree.

Then she seemed to gather herself. Placed a hand over the gap at the top of her dress. "I'm sorry, James," she whispered. "I'm a daydreaming, sentimental fool. Please forgive me."

Her hand settled on the doorknob, and then she was out in the hallway, pulling the door closed.

And then she was sticking her head back inside, and there was still a coquettish twinkle in her eyes.

I stared. Heaved an exhausted sigh.

"But I really do love you, James …"

The door closed behind her and she was gone.

I fell back into the desk chair. My knees buckled and I landed in an exhausted heap. I sat with my head down on my crossed arms at the desk, not knowing what to think, or what to say for myself Monday morning, or what to do next. Did Tom know?

What could possibly become of all this? Should I mention something to one of my colleagues? Could I trust any of them not to betray what I would tell them?

I sat for another half hour, my mind in turmoil and knowing that anything I might say about the situation could make me sound guilty. I might be suspected of assaulting an older woman. She might even say that it was I who came on to her … or she could say nothing … until it happened again.

And I knew it would.

Finally, I sat up and glanced around, trying to get my bearings and clear my mind. I had dropped my head onto the stack of medical journals which were of no interest now. But I also had a sheen of nervous sweat on my forehead. It had left a smudge on the top page, and it would not rub off.

I glanced down at the old journal without seeing it.

Then something at the bottom of the page caught my eye. And then my complete attention:

" **Bold New Author Writes Controversial Article on Science of Nephrology:"**

" **Can Man Live Without Kidneys?"**

 **We have not heard from Dr. Kyle Calloway before, but he has quickly become a total mystery to some in the Medical Profession.**

 **Read more. Turn to Page 32 for the complete article.**

 **Would YOU attempt something like this?**

With my breath catching in my throat and Patti Gresh's amorous advances totally forgotten, I turned to the specified page and began to read.

By the time I'd ploughed halfway through the so-called "article", I was laughing through tears that blocked my vision, and I had to stop to regain composure.

The wording was so insane, and at the same time so artfully written, that it might have won an award on the literary market for confusion, convolution and Doublespeak, right from the pages of _"Nineteen Eighty Four"._

The article professed to be about and alluding to Nephrology, one of Gregory House's specialties. The word "Nephrology" actually appeared once or twice during the narrative. I saw the proof of House's genius in every word … and it was meticulously crafted, although a work of total nonsense. It had House's unique tongue-in-cheek signature stamped all over it, as familiar as Ronald McDonald's red hair.

Who to realize that truth more completely than me? This article was a setup: a siren song for the terminally obsessed. I immediately realized I was _supposed_ to discover, on my own, where the old Wild Goose had flown to … and then I must fly there too.

"Dr. Kyle Calloway" indeed. If he'd wanted to use a hook to pull me in, this was surely the perfect one. I'd never mentioned the name of my high-school rival to _anyone_ but Gregory House.

This article was nearly four years old. He had been searching for me _that long?_ All I had to do now was track him down. And I would … now that I knew where to begin.

The grin on my face would have rebuilt the Walls of Jericho.

Patti and Tom Gresh would have to work things out in their marriage, and what would happen to them later, without any influence from me, or any attempt at an explanation. The explanation would manifest itself soon enough.

Patti had done me a favor, the likes of which she would never know. I would write a polite letter of resignation, explaining that a family emergency had caused me to leave without prior notice.

Then … like a coward … I would run away.

I suddenly felt an urgent need to get the hell out of Dodge. South Florida didn't look like the end of the rainbow any longer.

And I certainly wasn't ready for wife number four …

246


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

"Autumn in New England"

I'M HEADED NORTH ON I-88 … WAY PAST BINGHAMTON AND THE POINT OF NO RETURN. I'LL SOON PASS NEAR SCHENECTADY AND LOOK FOR THE TURNOFF ONTO ROUTE 4, WHICH WILL BRING ME CLOSER TO THE FRIENDLY VILLAGES AND TOWNS OF WESTERN NEW HAMPSHIRE. THERE IS STILL A LONG WAY TO GO.

THE SPECTACULAR FOLIAGE OF AUTUMN IS EXPLODING ALL AROUND ME THE FURTHER NORTH I COME, AND I CUT BACK MY SPEED A BIT SO I CAN TAKE A LOOK AT SOME OF IT WITHOUT LANDING IN A DITCH OR UPSIDE DOWN IN THE MEDIAN. REDS AND YELLOWS AND ORANGES BLEND WITH THE FADING GREENS OF SUMMER AND TURN THIS PART OF THE COUNTRY INTO A TAPESTRY OF BEAUTY THAT ONLY MA NATURE CAN WEAVE. FOR A FEW MINUTES I LEAVE ALL THE PAIN AND MISSTEPS OF MY LIFE FAR BEHIND IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR, ALONG WITH THE SEA CHANGES I'VE TRIED TO MAKE RECENTLY. I RAKE THE MOUNTAINS WITH MY EYES, TAKING AN APPRECIATIVE LOOK AT THE REASON WHY I HAVE ALWAYS DREAMED OF COMING TO NEW ENGLAND …

 _*WOW!*_

THE DYNASTY HUMS ALONG THE HIGHWAY TAKING ME FURTHER AND FURTHER FROM THE PLACES I HAVE ALWAYS CALLED 'HOME'. I'M MOVING CLOSER TO OTHER UNKNOWNS WHERE NOBODY KNOWS MY NAME, OR THE FOOL I AM, OR THE JERK I WAS AND STILL CAN BE SOMETIMES. I'M GOING BACK TO SQUARE ONE. SORT OF THE STORY OF MY LIFE. I'M THE GUY FROM "GROUNDHOG DAY" WHO WISHES THE DAMNED GROUNDHOG WOULD JUST CROAK, FOR CHRISSAKE, AND STOP REPLAYING THE SAME BULLSHIT OVER AND OVER.

I'M STILL NOT SURE EXACTLY WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR.

(YES I DO, BUT I DON'T DARE WISH FOR IT FOR FEAR IT WILL JUST DISAPPEAR FOREVER.)

I'M FATIGUED TO THE POINT OF NOT BEING ABLE TO THINK STRAIGHT. NOT TOO BAD PAIN-WISE AT THE MOMENT, BUT WEARY OF THE EFFORT AND THE STRAIN AND THE PUZZLE OF ANOTHER NAMELESS QUEST WITH NO CERTAINTY OF A FAVORABLE OUTCOME.

I FEEL LIKE THE STARSHIP _ENTERPRISE,_ GOING WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE. I'M IN UNCHARTED SPACE, AND IT SCARES THE HELL OUT OF ME. MY STOMACH CHURNS AND I'M LOST INSIDE A BUBBLE, GOING UP AND OVER AND AROUND AND AROUND. I'M RUNNING TOWARD THE UNKNOWN SO I CAN LEAVE EVERYTHING FAMILIAR BEHIND. IT SEEMS THAT WHEREVER I GO, THE OGRE OF MY PAST STILL HAUNTS MY FOOTSTEPS, AND MAYBE I'M LOOKING FOR AN ANSWER THAT NO LONGER EXISTS.

Last night I stayed at "The Granite View Motel", deep in the rugged terrain of the beautiful Vermont Granite Mountains. If I can maintain a decent momentum, this might be the last place where I have to pretend I'm just a vagabond on crutches. Within the next day or so I could venture into the state of New Hampshire and find a permanent resting place.

Not like a grave, but like a new lease on life.

As it turned out, the 'motel' consisted of eight tiny cabins, each with its own fireplace for warmth, a water supply located deep underground, and honest-to-god kerosene lanterns for light. The courtyard they circled had a large light on a tall pole that lit the way to a community bath house and toilet facility. There were two other cars parked near the building marked "Office", and I pulled in between the two of them. I saw there were lights on in two of the cabins. Made sense. The lights were flickering like a faraway campfire, and that's how I decided they were lit by kerosene. This place was unique and rustic and waay outdated. It would probably be condemned one day soon as a total fire hazard. But for now, I was determined to enjoy it.

I checked into the office, which had electricity, by the way … about 6:00 p.m. It was already dark. The woman behind the counter was built like a Sherman tank, dressed like a prospector, and talked like a longshoreman. Her husband, who stomped out of the back room soon after I limped inside, looked much the same, but spoke more like someone who had been educated at Yale or Harvard.

 _*What a weird combination!*_

Their names were Margy and Nathan Stern, they told me, and they'd run this place for over twenty- five years. After we'd introduced ourselves and I lowered my backpak to the floor, I looked around the room. There was a small TV hanging on the wall behind the cash register and an old juke box in the corner that looked like the one at Amos's Tiki Bar that had died in the Big Blow. There were also a couple of worn-out restaurant booths lining the opposite side of the room, and I caught a whiff of something good coming from the back. I paid for one of the cabins for a night, picked up the backpak and went over to plop into a seat at one of the booths.

Immediately, Nathan asked about my luggage, and whether I would like him to carry it to my cabin, since he assumed I probably couldn't do it myself … and start a fire in the fireplace. I told him thanks, but I had all I needed in the backpak. A fire in the fireplace would be welcome though. He was a friendly sort, and I saw him glance at my sock foot and the fancy red crutches, and then up at my face and my raggedy hair and the face full of grey-speckled whiskers. I'm not sure what he decided from his observations, but evidently he didn't believe I posed any danger, and decided to give me the benefit of the doubt.

Margy took her cue from her husband, and when he picked up the key to go get a fire going in my cabin, she disappeared into the kitchen, and he, out the front door.

I sat at the booth, beginning to hurt a bit with my leg hanging down like that, but within five minutes she was back with an old stool and a pillow, and directed me to prop my foot on it. Embarrassed at being treated almost like a friend, I complied. The pain diverted a bit and I relaxed. She disappeared again … to the kitchen (I guessed), and came back a few minutes later with a tray containing three big mugs of hot coffee, sugar paks and half'n'half creamer. "I have vegetable soup heating on the stove back there," she said. "You kinda look like you could use some."

I nodded and smiled, wondering if she treated all their guests this way … or just the scraggly ones with crippled legs ... "Sounds wonderful," I said. "Been a long time on the road, and I admit I'm tired and a little hungry. It smells great …"

Ten minutes later Nathan was back. He took a seat across from me just as Margy came out of the kitchen with a tray containing three big bowls of steamy vegetable soup, crowded thickly with plump veggies and hefty chunks of beef. "I set the damper in your cabin to last all night, Kyle. I also turned down your blankets so the bed is warm when you crawl into it. You'll probably sleep really well. Most people do. It's very quiet around here."

"That sounds good. Thanks."

"Where are you from? I can usually come pretty close by listening to a person's use of the language, but you don't seem to have any kind of regional accent."

I laughed softly and looked up to meet his eyes. "I have a 'Military' accent, I guess. My dad was a Marine pilot, and we never stayed in one place long enough to acquire a twang or a drawl that tied us to any one part of the country … or for that matter … the world. I've lived all over. Now that I'm disabled and retired, I'm going to my daughter's place in St. Johnsbury." (Stick to the lie you're used to.)

"Then you have a pretty far piece to go yet," Margy said. "That's way up north, close to the New Hampshire border."

I smiled. "Yeah, but it's not like I'm in any kind of hurry. I'll just take my time and enjoy the scenery."

That night I slept like I had died and gone to heaven. The bed covers were heavy and soft and smelled like piney woods. I fell asleep with dancing flames cracking and popping around fragrant logs in the mountain stone fireplace. From nine at night to nine in the morning, I slept through the night and knew nothing until the edge of bright sunlight ordered my eyes to open and my homesick ass to get ready to head out again.

I clomped over to the office and went inside to greet Nathan and Margy and two younger couples who had obviously stayed in the other two cabins. We all drank coffee and engaged in casual conversation, and I did not feel impatient or pissy with anything anybody said. Mentally, I just turned them off.

The younger ones left before me, and Nathan gathered my backpak and returned it to the front seat of the Dynasty. I bid them both goodbye and told them how well I had slept, and how comfortable the bed had been … and all that nonsense I was learning to use around people I didn't know.

My leg was aching and I popped a couple of Immitrax … I was even getting a feel for which pills to use when I hurt.

I bid a quick goodbye and was back on the highway by 10:00 a.m. The weather was turning colder.

Up ahead, the sign says: "East Lebanon exit. 2 Miles."

And I know Lebanon is where the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center is located. This is the place I want to check out. At least that's what Samuel (Clemens) Adams … the guy with the patriotic name … told me, way-the-hell back in Binghamton, New York … about a fifty years and ten thousand miles ago.

The Dynasty approached the exit and I flipped up the turn signal. I don't know why … there wasn't anything behind me. The car rumbled across the change in pavement as I braked slowly, pushing forward on the handle with my right hand, heading for the stop sign.

Here goes nothing.

The road is alternately straight and winding. Kind of narrow with a high crown and low shoulders. Like some women I have known. I drive carefully and pass a few cars traveling in the opposite direction. There are houses here and there. A few of them have barns and other outbuildings. There are fields with dead cornstalks bowed in the middle and leaning into each other, like children exchanging secrets.

The road passes through stands of pine trees and a few oaks and maples and hickories, and the car moves out of sunlight and into shadow. The canopy overhead obscures the sky completely. I crane my neck to gawk upward from time to time and see the earthy proliferation of autumn colors like a protective shield above me. Then suddenly back into sunlight again.

Fields of mowed grain are yellowed now, and interspersed with tall brown weeds that poke upward like Indians lurking in a thicket. As I drive further in, the number of houses gradually increases and starts to bunch closer together until I realize there is a neat, quiet small town beginning to form around me.

" _Well whaddaya know …*_

This is Etna. There is a gas station on the right with a convenience store and diner attached. It is almost laughingly rural. The only vehicles parked near it are pickup trucks, an old stake-body, and one huge John Deere tractor with a hay wagon loaded with bales of straw. I smile.

I pull in for gas, realizing with chagrin that there is no full-service island. Well of course there isn't! This is the sticks. Not Manhattan. If I was going to settle down around here, I had to get used to pumping my own goddamned gas. I knew I must get out of the car and maneuver around to use the pump. Then I'd have to haul my crippled ass inside to pay for it … and the hicks will all be staring …

I was halfway out of the car, stuffing my wallet into a back pocket and struggling to get the crutches settled beneath me so my foot wouldn't hit the ground like it did back in Nay Aug Park.

Behind me I heard the door of the convenience store slam shut, and then footsteps on the gravel. I was removing the gas cap and reaching for the hose on the pump. I had a sudden shortage of hands, and juggling three things at once made the maneuver a bit awkward.

Someone walked up behind me and placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. I turned to see a smiling septuagenarian with his other hand held out, pointing to the pump hose. "It's a real sum'bitch when you aint got enough hands, aint it, young feller? How about you hand the damn pump handle to me, and you stand back …"

Any sarcastic remark I might have made regarding my expectations of pity melted away, and I found myself smiling back at him. I squinted instead in the bright sunlight and nodded my head. "You just aint a-whistling Dixie, partner," I quoted from somewhere. I surrendered the hose to him gladly and leaned back against the dusty side of the Dynasty. "Thank you."

"You aint from around here, are yuh?"

"Nope," I said. "I'm not."

"Din't think so. Want me to filler-up?"

"Yeah. Please."

I saw him looking over the car with a speculative eye. "Jersey, huh?" He thrust the nozzle into the tank and squeezed the trigger and locked it.

"Yeah. Came up here to arrange an appointment with a Dr. Thoreau … about my leg …."

 _*Now why in the hell am I telling him that? As though he would give a shit …*_

"That so?" He mused. "I hear he's a good man for that kind of stuff. That med center is pretty big business in this neck of the woods. How long you been on them damn crutches? You look like a pro."

I stared at him. Why did he care? "About two years now, give or take. My leg's been screwed up a lot longer than that. Leg and foot need a lot more attention lately than I can give 'em." Listening to myself talk, I was amazed at the effortless way I fell into his speech patterns and opened up about my physical problem.

"Wal … yuh come to the right place. Ed Thoreau's about the best there is." As he spoke, the gas pump shut off with a loud click and he pulled it out and hung it up in one smooth motion. "About five years ago, Ed's daddy had an accident with his farm tractor … kinda like that one there …" He pointed to the big John Deere and then continued. "It turned over and damn near sliced his arm off. Ed's team patched the old man up, an' today he's good as new. Strong as an ox an' mean as a rattlesnake, Ed says."

I grinned. The old guy put the gas cap back on the Dynasty and snapped the lid shut. Walking close to my shoulder, he accompanied me into the convenience store so I could pay for the gas. He opened the door and stood back while I maneuvered slowly up to the counter. I paid the guy with a fifty dollar bill and shoved the change into a front pocket of my jeans. We nodded at each other, the way guys do.

When I turned to go back to the car, the old geezer opened the door for me again and stood back. I clomped outside and thanked him again.

He said: "Oh sure … happy to do it. I gotta get a move on now, or Nora will throw my supper to the hogs. When you see Ed Thoreau, tell him his dad said 'howdy', and come see us sometime." He looked back at me and winked as he swung up into the John Deere tractor and hit the starter.

 _*Well, I'll be damned … looks like there's some bullshitters in New Hampshire too!*_

I drove on into Etna-proper very slowly, trying to rubberneck without ending up in a ditch. The post office was on the right; a boxy structure painted slate blue with white trim. The front of it was accessible by a set of three steps up to a small porch where a narrow door opened to the inside. I thought: _*Oh shit … I might not be able to get in there …*_ I stopped in front and noticed a matching blue sign with smaller print: "Handicap entrance in rear."

 _*Oh … oops …*_

I idled on down the main drag. Etna had no traffic lights, but there were stop signs at almost every corner. I could see them as little spots of red, lined up like soldiers as far as the eye could see. What a pain in the ass that would be, to have to stop at every other street corner!

In due time I passed the library, three churches, an old school house turned into a town hall; a bank, a fire house, a small market, a drugstore and the only hotel in town. The speed limit was 25 mph, and what little traffic I passed showed no inclination to go any faster than that. Cars were parked parallel on both sides of the street, and there were no parking meters. This place seemed stuck in the 1940s.

When I turned the corner at the other end of the next block, I passed a police station on the left, and it had a shiny black & white 2000-something cruiser parked out front. Assured me I wasn't in the Twilight Zone.

I reached the other end of town and the road leading out … in short order. One thing I noticed as I passed: the vast majority of private properties here were well maintained. It looked like a storybook town lifted from the pages of a child's fairy tale and plunked down here. The streets were lined with beautiful old trees, and a fire plug here and there.

There were people on the sidewalks. I saw a lady walking a dog and a man with a bag of groceries. There were kids on bikes and others lobbing footballs back and forth. I wondered what they did for entertainment. Probably went over to Lebanon to the mall or to the nearest Wal-Mart.

I circled around at the last block and headed back to the street where I'd seen the hotel. The Watson Inn was a big three-story brick structure with wide front façade and a large parking lot. Across the street from it was a big brown, wood-shingled apartment building with a handicap logo on the front wall. I slowed down and pulled across to the curb. I scribbled down the phone number of the real estate office on the only piece of paper I had … a ten-dollar bill. I would, after all, need a place to live if I decided to stay.

A minute later I pulled into the parking lot of the Watson Inn, shut off the ignition and climbed clumsily out of the car. The warning signs of trouble ahead with my damn leg were nagging me, and no matter how I turned or tried to maneuver it, it hurt … and hurt a lot. Too many hours on the road and too many times ignoring what was happening to my physical body were taking a toll. It was promising to blossom into something spectacular if I didn't soon tend to it.

I picked up my backpak and made my way out of the parking lot, across the veranda and reached for the entry door. I thumbed the latch and prepared to back into it in order to swing it open. Out of nowhere a woman in a yellow waitress uniform stood with her foot against the bottom of the door, blocking me from sprawling on my rear end. A little late I discovered it was automatic, and it meant business.

"Easy there," she said in a soft, small voice. "I have the door. It can be a little tricky, especially if you're not familiar with the way it works. I have it now. Steady yourself against it and back off a little. Then you can come in without being in danger of falling."

I listened to what she said and narrowly averted a clumsy disaster. "Thank you. I almost made a spectacular three-point landing there …" I felt myself laughing with nervous embarrassment as I splayed the crutches and regained an uneasy balance.

She backed out of my path as I swung around to face her. "I didn't mean to startle you," she said. "But I saw you coming, and sometimes people who walk with crutches turn around and back into doors like this one, thinking they are difficult to open. This one is on an electric eye. Are you okay? You haven't hurt yourself, have you?"

I held up my hand and shook my head, even though my entire leg was thumping with pain. "I'm fine, but I'm very glad you were here to help."

She smiled, and it was infectious. She was tiny. No taller than the crest of my shoulder. She was shaped like a snowman … large ball at the bottom, a smaller ball in the middle and a perfectly shaped full-moon face at the top. Stubby legs beneath. Her hair was black with gray streaks and pulled back into a bun at the back of her head. There were bristles of hair sticking out, like a ball of black yarn with knitting needles still imbedded. Her eyes were lightly slanted, and I decided she had Asian blood … either that or her hair was pulled so tight that her eyes stretched out horizontally.

I limped slowly over to the registration counter and she followed close behind me, her hand hovering in a protective gesture near the small of my back.

 _*Oh shit … I have another mother!*_

The man behind the desk watched the two of us approach, and when I stopped and leaned my elbows on the surface, he said something to her just below the range of my hearing. The strange little woman turned away and patted me on the arm. She looked back with a smile as she disappeared beyond a pair of bat-wing doors. She was probably needed in the dining room.

I watched her go, slightly intrigued.

"May I help you, sir?" The man inquired.

"I need a room," I said. "Is there one with handicap accommodations? Preferably first floor. I don't move very fast or very well. I may be here a few weeks … or longer. I don't know yet." I swung my backpak down from my shoulder and dropped it on the floor.

"We don't have rooms with handicap designation, per se," he said. "But there is one on the first floor with hardwood floors, wide doorways, low thresholds and a whirlpool bath. This is the slack season around here, you see. All the Snowbirds have flown the coop for southern sun and sandy beaches, and it's going to be pretty quiet until closer to Thanksgiving. Back that hallway …" and he indicated the area behind me, "is the best we can do. It has been used by handicapped people on occasion, and no one has ever had any complaints."

I looked where he pointed and saw that the hallway was wide, but not long. "Sounds good. It can accommodate a wheelchair as well, right? Sometimes I just have to get off these things …"

"I understand," he conceded. "Do you have luggage?"

I nodded. "I do. It's in the trunk of my car, as well as my wheelchair."

He relaxed, finally, and his expression became more friendly. "We'd be happy to bring them in for you, sir. I need you to sign the register. The room is $150 a week in advance." He pushed a large door key across the counter toward me as I dug out my wallet. My name is Vern, Mr. Calloway."

I nodded acknowledgment; opened my wallet and laid the money on the counter before him. He eyed me closely, but said nothing.

"My car is the old blue Dynasty in your handicap spot … and here is the key.

He frowned. "Dodge Dynasty? Really?"

I nodded. "That's what they all say …"

I picked up the backpak and turned around to walk away. He would probably like me better after I had a bath and a shave …

253


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

"Remixed Emotions"

I HAULED MYSELF, SHAKING AND HELLISHLY TIRED, DOWN THE SHORT HALLWAY TO THE DESIGNATED ROOM. IT WAS ALMOST TOO FAR TO WALK. I WAS BREATHING HARD, PROPING MYSELF INTO THE DOORFRAME TO GET THE KEY INTO THE LOCK, AND THEN PUSHING INSIDE. I CLOSED THE DOOR AND LEANED BACK AGAINST IT. MY BACKPAK DROPPED AT MY FEET WITH A THUMP, JUST ENOUGH ROOM FOR WHOEVER BROUGHT MY STUFF TO GET THE DOOR OPEN.

THE INTERIOR WAS DIM AND SHADOWY. VENETIAN BLINDS AT BOTH WINDOWS WERE CLOSED. I REACHED BEHIND ME AND THUMBED THE LOCK BUTTON ON THE EDGE OF THE DOOR SO IT WAS ACCESSIBLE FROM THE OUTSIDE. I WASN'T SURE IF I HAD THE STRENGTH TO GET UP AGAIN ONCE I SAT DOWN ON THE BED.

WHEN I TURNED ON THE LIGHT, TWO BRASS TABLE LAMPS CAME ON FROM A VERY LONG DRESSER AGAINST THE OPPOSITE WALL. ANY DETAILS OF THE REST OF THE ROOM WERE LOST TO ME AS I HEADED DIRECTLY FOR THE BED AND SANK DOWN ONTO IT. THE CRUTCHES SLID TO THE FLOOR AND MY HANDS SLIPPED AWAY FROM MY SIDES. I LET MYSELF FALL BACKWARD ON THE SOFT SURFACE AND DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER TO TAKE OFF MY JACKET.

A SOFT KNOCK AT THE DOOR CAME ABOUT FIVE MINUTES LATER. "COME ON IN," I SAID. "IT'S OPEN." A SKINNY YOUNG TWENTY-SOMETHING WITH GLASSES SLIDING DOWN HIS NOSE OPENED THE DOOR AND SHOVED MY WHEELCHAIR THROUGH WITH MY CARRYALL PERCHED ON THE SEAT. MY OLD NAVY PEACOAT WITH THE ODD BROWN BUTTON HUNG NEATLY FROM THE HANDLES. FROM THE LOOK OF IT, HE'D PROBABLY FOUND IT UNDER THE SPARE TIRE. THE KID TOOK THE CARRYALL OFF THE SEAT OF THE CHAIR, SET IT ON THE FLOOR AND PUSHED THE CHAIR CLOSER TO THE BED. HE PLACED MY CAR KEYS ON THE NIGHT STAND.

"I'M JAKE HARVEY, MR. CALLOWAY. I CAN USUALLY BE FOUND AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE DURING THE DAY IF YOU NEED ANYTHING. IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN GET FOR YOU NOW? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? YOU LOOK A LITTLE … PALE …"

I STRUGGLED TO SIT UP AND FOCUS ON WHAT HE WAS SAYING. AFTER SO MANY HOURS ON THE ROAD, IT WAS DIFFICULT TO CONCENTRATE. I ACHED ALL OVER AND WAS ONLY VAGUELY AWARE THAT HE HAD LEANED DOWN TO PICK UP MY CRUTCHES TO PLACE THEM ON THE BED BESIDE ME.

"I'M FINE … JAKE … I'M TIRED. THANKS." I WISHED HE WOULD JUST SHUT THE HELL UP AND GO ON HIS MERRY WAY.

All I wanted at the moment was a fistful of my strongest medication, sleep, and a hot bath. Then something to eat. Maybe. Or maybe I only wanted to get under the covers and conk out until my body told me it just couldn't possibly sleep any longer. "How long is the restaurant open?"

The kid smiled, as though he was grateful to be able to supply some information I could actually use. I watched him as he lifted my carryall onto the small cart made for that purpose, and picked up the backpak from the floor and placed it on a chair beside the bed. He removed the pea-coat from the back of the wheelchair as though it were made of cashmere. He put it on a hanger and hung it on the front of a door that I presumed was a small closet. "Lily's staff usually begins the cleanup about nine o'clock at night, so If you need to chill out awhile, you still have plenty of time."

I stared at him as he finally ceased his compulsive fixing and straightening and stood awkwardly with his long arms hanging by his sides. I could almost smell his need to be of help to me in some small way, but not sure how to ask or how I might construe his efforts to be of further service. It was almost comical, and I let him dangle for a few moments. I was certain something uber-sympathetic was rattling around in his head. He just didn't know how to say it. "Thanks, Jake," I finally said. "Right now I need to rest and unwind and relax and take my meds. Then I need a hot bath and a trim job … and if I make it to the dining room, that would be good. If not, I'll see everybody in the morning. I thank you for your help. I guess that's about all …"

He took the hint. I suspected that he was a lonely, sensitive kid with a big heart and a need to be of help in any way he could. It probably wouldn't hurt me to treat him with a little respect. He turned back toward the door and clasped the handle. "Would you like me to switch the lock back on again?"

I had forgotten about that. I nodded. "I'd appreciate it, Jake. And would you please turn out the lights on your way out? With my thanks."

"I certainly will, Mr. Calloway. Rest well."

"I will. And it's 'Kyle' …"

But he had already left, and I found myself sitting in the dark. Hell, I'd forgotten to tip him.

I reached to the backpak for my meds and gulped a dose quickly. If I wanted to rest, I needed to be rid of the road dirt and the feeling of having rolled around in dead leaves for a week.

It occurred to me suddenly that it would feel strange to get used to any kind of permanence again. Stranger still, to attempt to put down roots in a place I'd never lived before and didn't know the area or the life-flow patterns of the people who populated this little unhurried portion of earth …

Could I fit in here? Or would I be a fish-out-of-water as I always was in Princeton, New Jersey? I didn't know, and it was a little intimidating to think about. Even when the 'thinking' knocked hard at the door of my new reality and I wasn't sure if I knew how to answer ...

I leaned down to slide the sneaker off my left foot; my dulled senses forgetting for a moment that the meds hadn't had enough time to work, and that leaning over against my fucked-up leg was always a form of torture. The remaining muscle bunched and cramped and I moaned and fell over onto my good side, hissing through my teeth with the pain it caused.

I cursed as I grabbed the leg just above my knee and squeezed the life out of it. Even after all these years I sometimes absent-mindedly treated my bum leg as though it were just as healthy as the other one … and I know it wants to be … but can't.

I lay on my side, drained of strength, my face pushed into the mattress while I held my breath to contain the sounds of distress. The shoe was off my foot and lying on the floor, but my pain was off the scale; my leg, useless and pulsing until the meds kicked in. I panted, wishing they would just fuckin' hurry!

Fifteen endless minutes later I pushed upright and wiped my face on the sleeve of my shirt.

When your body is saturated with pain-sweat, you can't wait to get the clothes off and go soak yourself to get rid of your own stench. The recovery from 'that one' made my body tingle as though it were electrified, and the all-consuming weakness in the aftermath caused my arms to flop around as though they hadn't been attached to my shoulders correctly. Trying to finish getting undressed probably looked like a loose-limbed tap dance by Ray Bolger, but I finally peeled down to bare skin and finished by rolling into the bathroom in the wheelchair. I was too damned sore and dizzy to use the crutches …

I sat in the whirlpool bath in water that would have cooked a pot roast. And I stayed there until it began to cool down and the first shiver of opposite reaction cascaded down my spine. I was too shaky to hold the razor in my hand to trim my beard and mustache and shave my face. I would probably have slit my throat. So I let it go until morning.

I pulled on a new set of sweats, being extremely careful how I bent down to get into them. My leg still ached, but it didn't make me want to scream. I decided against food tonight too. So I turned in early, while things were temporarily 'neutral' …

Daylight woke me, even through the closed blinds. I looked at my watch, and it was almost 8:30 a.m.

Someone was at the door.

"Use your key … I'm not getting up." (The litany of my life … one of them.)

There was a pause … footsteps retreating.

Another pause. Same footsteps returning … a scratchy sound at the door lock. I had no doubt who was there.

The door opened. I sat up slowly, manually pushing both legs to the edge of the mattress and down. I felt so weak that I knew I must appear to be drunk …

Two people. One with a breakfast cart that carried with it the heavenly scent of coffee; bacon …

The other came toward me, leaned down and peered into my face; raised a hand to touch my temple with the backs of her fingers.

Nursie Nancy and Billy Breakfast … but I didn't say it out loud.

What I _did_ say: "Are you two babysitting me?"

"Well .. uh …"

"Not really, but we wondered …"

"You wondered if I died during the night?" (I didn't say "croaked", though I wanted to.)

" **Oh n-no-o-o …"**

" **Oh my goodness, no-o …"**

My head pounded, my body felt like someone had shoved a stick up my ass and set it on fire, and my leg felt as tight as though it had been wound up with a key on a spring …

And yet I laughed at them. My second day in town and already the natives were trying to take care of me. I must really be pathetic.

"Your name is Lily, right?" I stared into her sweet little moon face; the narrow black eyes filled with sympathy and a very honest concern. How could I be pissed off at a face like that? I remembered a lady who worked at PPTH who had a pug puppy that looked just like this lady …

"Yes, I'm Lily. How did you know?"

"Jake told me." I looked beyond her to the kid with the glasses that slid down on his nose … where they were right now. He grinned shyly and looked down at his feet.

"We brought you some breakfast, Kyle," the kid said.

"You thought I was dead, but you brought me breakfast." He remembered that I told him to call me 'Kyle'. Curious. I thought he hadn't heard.

"No-o … we didn't think you were dead. But you didn't come to dinner last night … and we were worried."

"Well, that explains it."

"We're sorry."

"No you're not. Now how about some of that coffee, okay?"

Both faces brightened up. "Sure thing … comin' right up."

Jake rolled the cart close to the bed, making certain to stay back from my legs. There was bacon and eggs, toast, orange juice, coffee. I ignored the nagging pain because I was hungrier than sore.

"Did you sleep well last night?" Lily asked.

I nodded, chewing on a bite of toast smeared with runny egg yolk, making it impossible to talk.

"You have a slight fever, you know," she continued earnestly.

I stared at her crossly, but her eyebrows rose. Not intimidated. Was I losing my touch?

"My leg is in sad shape, in case you might have noticed." I took another bite of toast and egg and went on talking with my mouth full. "It hurts. A lot. All the time. I take pills. A lot. Sometimes they make me sick. Sometimes I run a temp. I came here to see a doctor. Over at DHMC. Make it better or cut it off."

I saw them both cringe. Served them right. That would teach them to babysit me!

But I knew it wouldn't.

When they finally left, I finished breakfast and got dressed. Folded two twenties and left them under the coffee cup and the edge of the plate. Exchanged the sweats for jeans and tee shirt. Carefully. I didn't want to reawaken the 'sleeping giant'. I stayed in the wheelchair. Why invite trouble? The leg needed to rest after all that time being dragged (literally) all over the countryside and being made to sleep in all kinds of strange accommodations …

I sat in front of the large well-lit mirror in the bathroom and studied my whiskery mug long enough to trim up the mustache and beard and shave the spaces between. I was beginning to believe that my short-lived passion for neatness was for the birds, and just go back to the scruffy, unkempt look of years before.

 _*CHANGE, House! CHANGE! That's what it's all about. You're getting better with the 'polite' … and you gotta get busy with the 'pretty'.*_

After that silly observation, I had to stop shaving for a minute, or I'd have cut a two-inch furrow down the length of my left cheek. Thank god I hadn't lost my sense of humor, such as it was.

The kid … Jake … came for the breakfast cart while I was channel surfing about a half hour later. We made small talk for a few minutes, but he was too bashful to throw out any original thoughts of his own. I decided if I stayed around this burg any length of time, I'd see to it that that habit would come to a screeching halt.

After he left, I spent the rest of the day sleeping and checking out the local TV channels. But I quickly discovered that New Hampshire stations played all the same shit that played everywhere else.

In the evening I rolled through the bat-wing doors of the hotel's restaurant and swung around to look the place over. It was a large and opulent venue for such a small town. The tables and chairs were old walnut; heavy and polished to a warm glow. The tablecloths were made of heavy burlap, dyed in autumn tones. Center pieces were potted chrysanthemums, I think, making the entire room look holiday festive. Drapes at the floor-to-ceiling windows were made of the same material and dyed burgundy. Overhead were six big chandeliers with large round globes that threw ambient light all through the very large room. The walnut bar up front was decorated with Indian corn and winter squash and small pumpkins; Pilgrim men and ladies and Indians in fancy headdresses. All made from crepe paper. As were a couple of turkeys and Mallard ducks with fine plumage. I was duly impressed. There was classical music, turned low, being piped in from somewhere. Debussy. Hmmmmm … For a change I was feeling mellow, although I'd had nothing whatsoever to drink; alcoholic or otherwise.

The buzz of conversation from other diners paused momentarily when I entered, but none of them stared or lingered long on my presence. Shortly the conversations resumed. I was heartened by the things I had always heard about 'taciturn' New Englanders and their ability to mind their own business. (With the possible exception of Lily and Jake.) Maybe I was in the right place after all.

Lily Chamberlin walked out of the kitchen with a large wooden food cart and attended to a young couple with a little girl. Lily looked up, saw me, and waved. She spoke with the people at the table while she served their meal, and then returned the cart to the kitchen. Meanwhile I sat at the table and studied the large menu.

When I looked up again, Lily was headed in my direction. She leaned over to whisper in my ear: "Oh my, Mr. Calloway … aren't you the handsome one."

I pursed my lips and did not comment. Let discretion be the better part of valor! I looked out the tall window at the main street, watching cars pass by intermittently. "This is a nice restaurant, Lily. You seem to be a woman of many talents."

That got her. Her face turned dark red.

 _*That'll teach you to call me 'handsome' out loud!*_

She sighed, undaunted. "We aim to please, dear. Take your time ordering. I'll be back. But in the meantime, what can I get you to drink?"

I smiled up at her. If she wanted 'handsome', she would get it. "I would like a Martini, darling."

She was laughing. "Oh, you are a daring man!"

She turned and laughed again and then left. The people at the nearest table looked over at me and smiled, and I smiled back. Strange that my face didn't crack with the effort …

As I looked around the place again, listening to the music playing softly, I was reminded of the evenings after work when Wilson and I had gone restaurant and bar hopping around Princeton on weekends. We usually chose eateries much like this one because I knew Wilson enjoyed them. I wondered how he was, and where he was right this moment …

… and my mood changed in a heartbeat.

I brought myself up short. Back to reality with a bang. Wilson was long gone and I was here by my own choosing. Purposely I turned my attention to other parts of the dining room and to the four waitresses working the tables. Pretty, all of them. My leg cramped, reminding me it was there: my whiny mistress. I reached the palm of my hand to it, soothing it quickly, hoping like hell it would not go into spasm.

Lily brought my drink and took my order. The dining room was busy. It was the dinner hour. I sat alone after that, distracted and increasingly miserable. My leg hadn't gone into spasm, but it hurt, and my foot had joined the party. I ordered prime rib, roasted potatoes and asparagus spears. I needed to eat something substantial, but my head was suddenly joining in the fray. I sipped at my drink without tasting it.

I didn't speak to Lily again, although I knew she was watching me with growing concern. One of the waitresses served me politely but quietly, and I knew she and the others had all they could handle this evening. I didn't tease any of them as I would have done normally. I ate slowly, not really tasting the food, although I knew it was excellent. My focus centered once again on PPTH and that bastard Gregory House, who alienated everyone he had ever known … and some he didn't.

Had Eric Foreman stuck it out as administrator? Or had he moved on? I hoped he hadn't turned into me. He was so afraid of doing so. He was intelligent and involved. Too damn bright to fall into the same trap I had.

What about Chase and Taub? I was sure they'd both flown the coop by now. They were already chafing at the bit while I was still there.

I would never let Cameron get close to me. No way. ( _"I was in love with you!")_ I just couldn't. She was young enough to be my daughter. I hoped she'd found a much better life and let go of the need to "fix" what couldn't be fixed.

Remy Hadley: "Thirteen". The end of her life is coming closer. Any day now the Huntingdon's will rear its ugly head. I am in no position to keep my promise to her. I sincerely hope she finds a suitable proxy. She deserves that. She was, after all, my pick of the litter.

The other two "ducklings" I barely got to know. Park and Adams: didn't want to know them. They were like a bad "P. S." to an unspectacular story. A vague afterthought. Cuddy hired them and then ran. The little one with the funny glasses and the attitude … has a brain the size of Montana. She's feisty and honest. I might have liked her if the situation had been different. But the other one … the "eye-candy" one: she was born into money. Doesn't need to know anything, and doesn't, in my expert opinion. Easy come, as they say, and easy go.

Shit … I don't even want to think about the Alpha Female. But here she is; last, but not least. Cuddy. Hair the color of fresh road tar, floating around her head like patent leather silk. Heart to match. Her fathomless eyes; now blue, now green. Undressed me by the numbers, boring into my soul, but didn't let me bore into hers. Her graceful hands caressed my skin, making me _want_ to believe that I was whole and young and strong and virile. She caressed the screaming sensitivity of my mutilated leg with a tenderness that sent tendrils of pain and ecstasy through my starving body. Her perfect form tempted me, seduced me and convulsed me, driving me wild with pleasure.

However, there was a dark side. Our combined flaws made a life together impossible. She told me she loved me just as I was; that my unbridled moments made her want me even more. We could survive the world side by side. But she was the commandant of a small army. Larger than _my_ small army, and royally demanding. I could not become docile and mild in order to live up to her code. My pain ruled me, and it was a pain she did not understand. When I was distant and silent and in agony, she taunted me and made demands I could not meet and which exhausted my energy. Worst of all, she accused me of stealing drugs and getting high. No. I hadn't. Not then.

When I finally smuggled the failed drug that necessitated my third surgery, and I called her in the middle of the night to take me to the hospital, we both knew it was way beyond "over". She left again and did not come back. I saw her with another man, and my rage was so encompassing that I drove my car … And in my peripheral vision I saw James Wilson fall to the curb. I saw the pain in my best friend's eyes, and I felt the heat of his gaze on my retreating back.

The regret hit so strongly at that moment, I couldn't finish my meal. I left a fifty under the edge of my plate and whipped about quickly to roll out of there and back to my room. I hoped anyone who witnessed my exit assumed it was because of the pain.

It was.

But not the kind they thought …

261


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

"Looking for Mr. Goodwrench"

I WOKE UP THIS MORNING FEELING AS THOUGH SOMEBODY HAD RUBBED MY FUR THE WRONG WAY. SOMETHING EERIE WAS FLOATING OVER ME, REACHING DOWN TO GRAZE MY SKIN WITH LONG, BONY FINGERS. THE ELECTRICAL OVERLOAD CAUSED A SPIKE THAT SIZZLED THROUGH THE ROOM, AS WELL AS THROUGH ME.

 _*DAMN!*_

I KEPT STILL AND LOOKED AROUND, MOVING ONLY MY EYES. IT WAS DAYLIGHT, SO IF THERE WERE SPOOKS IN MY ROOM, THEY MUST BE HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT. WAS I DESTINED TO DO SOMETHING ESPECIALLY FEARLESS AND VALIANT TODAY?

 _*NOT EFFIN' LIKELY.*_

MY HAND WENT TO MY THIGH AS A SUDDEN TWINGE CAUGHT ME UNAWARE. MY KNEE WAS FEELING THE FIRST CRAMPS OF MORNING PAIN.

 _*SHIT!*_

MY LYRICA AND VICODIN BOTTLES WERE ON THE BEDSIDE TABLE, BUT I GRABBED THE IMMITRAX AND SWALLOWED ONLY TWO. WILLY WOULDN'T LIKE IT IF I TOOK MORE THAN HE'D PRESCRIBED. STUPID TIME TO THINK ABOUT WHAT WILLY PRESCRIBED. I LAY BACK DOWN AND CLOSED MY EYES.

ANOTHER TWINGE NIGGLED ME IN THE NETHER REGIONS … I SOON HAD TO GET TO THE HEAD.

BEYOND THE WINDOWS THE TOWN OF ETNA WAS BEGINNING TO MAKE MORNING NOISES; THE SHOUT OF A STREET WORKER, THE HONK OF A CAR HORN. IT WAS DARK INSIDE MY ROOM. I STILL HAD NOT OPENED THE BLINDS, BUT I COULD HEAR MOVEMENT FROM THE STREET AND SOUNDS OF PEOPLE IN THE LOBBY, COMING IN FOR BREAKFAST. THERE WERE LINES OF DAYLIGHT BETWEEN THE WINDOW SILL AND THE EDGE OF THE SLATS. CHRIST! I WAS WIDE AWAKE AND I DIDN'T WANT TO BE.

I SHOULD GET UP AND GET WITH IT. I DIDN'T WANT TO DO THAT EITHER. I WAS IN A SHITTY MOOD.

DOWN THE HALLWAY I HEARD THE SNUFFLE-AND-ROAR OF A LARGE VACUUM CLEANER. IT WAS HEADED MY WAY, INTERMITTENTLY SCRAPING THE WALL AND MOVING BACK TO THE CENTER OF THE FLOOR. WHY NOT USE A MOP AND BUCKET AND DIMINISH THE SOUND EFFECTS OF BULLDOZERS BASHING ROCKS? NO FREAKIN' RESPECT FOR CRIPPLES WHO NEEDED THEIR SLEEP …

IT WAS NEARLY 7:00 A.M., AND I SHOULD MAKE AN EFFORT TO GET READY TO DO WHATEVER IT WAS THEY DID HERE ON AN OVERCAST MONDAY MORNING.

BUT I SHOULD PEE AND SHOWER FIRST. (NOT AT THE SAME TIME …)

MY SHAKY BODY WAS AWASH IN PAIN-SWEAT AGAIN; ACCUMULATED WHILE I SLEPT. I'D GONE TO BED IN MY SKIVVIES. JEANS AND SHIRT WERE ON THE FLOOR IN A PILE, AND I DIDN'T REMEMBER MUCH OF ANYTHING ELSE AFTER COMING BACK TO MY ROOM LAST NIGHT.

MY BACK WAS STIFF AND SO WERE MY NECK AND SHOULDERS, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. I'M GETTING TOO DAMNED OLD TO BE GALLAVANTING ALL OVER THE COUNTRY. I SHOULD FIND A GOOD SPOT AND STAY PUT.

COULD THIS BE IT?

I turned stiffly to the right and slid off the mattress into the wheelchair, the most effective results for the least amount of effort. I grabbed clean pants, a fresh tee shirt and new underwear and wheeled across the floor into the bathroom. Over to the john. Water the daisies …

Time to check out that fancy shower … let it water _me!_

I laid the fresh clothing on the toilet seat, stripped to the skin and rolled across the access strip into the glass enclosure. The 'rain forest' shower head had a wicked needle spray that woke me the rest of the way very quickly. I moaned out loud with the pleasure of it and raised my arms over my head like a newly converted supplicant … eyes tightly closed in an attitude of rapture …

 _*Yeah, right!*_

At least I felt better after the shower. A lot of the stiffness had worked its way out and I was thinking clearer. I dried off and took my time getting dressed. As always, the socks caused the most trouble. Bending over to pull up the right one made both foot and thigh hurt like hell, and it took awhile. Worse yet, I remembered Hooley's admonitions about keeping up with the leg exercises, and my rigid training as a doctor always confirmed his wisdom: 'use it or lose it'. I hadn't done any of that while hauling my ass northward along the eastern seaboard. If Hooley saw me now, he would probably be highly put out with the way I moved and the loss of weight and muscle tone. I had no excuse, except that I was so weary of the escalating pain … and I economized every movement to avoid causing more of it …

I wanted to get over to the Dartmouth-Hitchcock and look up Ed Thoreau, the orthopedist that Samuel had told me about. I must also look for a place to live where I could have quiet and privacy and solitude. I couldn't long endure the constant bustle of a hotel, even as small as this one, for any length of time. I needed alone-time and freedom to let down my private barriers … as much as I needed food to eat and air to breathe … maybe more.

And I missed my music …

I trimmed up the beard and mustache again, and shaved the spaces that were supposed to be shaved. What a pain in the ass to have to do this every day if I wanted to present a clean façade to the general pub-lick!

I finally finished in the bath and rolled back to the bedroom. I opened the Venetian blinds, finally. The sun was emerging from behind a cover of clouds, and a brisk wind was quickly blowing the clouds away to the south. It looked cold out there. Dead leaves were flying. Better wear the jacket …

I paused a moment to stare at the big brown apartment building directly across the street, and my little wheels began to spin like old Steve McQueen on his tread mill. The thing was for sale. Did I want to take on the responsibility of maintenance and landlordship? Or did I just want to rent that big empty apartment while I tried to make up my mind whether this town might actually become my final resting place? (Let's make that: Final "Nesting" Place.)

What … if …?

 ***REALLY, House?***

 ***REALLY?***

 ***Well, why-the-hell NOT?***

Some parts of my brain yelled louder than other parts …

It was time to put the wheelchair out of the way and get back to an upright position. I was getting lazy and angry and my leg was touchy and stubborn. I would much rather have chosen the easier, softer way. But If I wanted to retain even a minimum of mobility, I must get in gear and expend more effort than I was expending now.

My lone Nike was under the edge of the bed, and the Milleniums were right beside it. I balanced myself carefully and hefted it all up onto the comforter. Then I sat down again, untied the shoe and placed it on the floor where I could step into it easily. I tied it quick, grunting with effort, and then stood up to get the crutches under me.

I stuffed my ridiculously fat wallet into a back pocket and hung the backpak on the bed post. The less I had to carry, the better. I stood up and put on the peacoat. An old newsboy's hat was stuffed into an inside pocket, so I put that on too.

I adjusted the crutches beneath my arms and opened the hallway door.

Little wheels inside my head began spinning away. I ignored them. What could I do with the building across the street? What did the owner want for it? How much renovation would it take to get it in shape? It was a little run down, and could certainly use a new coat of paint and a shitload of new trim. I kept ignoring the little wheels, but they still spun and spun … and I have this damned eclectic thinking process that insists I make the right decision … find the answer to the puzzle; my 'Rubik's Cube Complex', Wilson used to call it. The little wheels ignored me right back.

 _*Get your ass moving, House!*_

I looked both ways, up and down the hall. My friendly vacuum cleaner had gone to bang the walls somewhere else, and I saw no one when I checked the hall all the way to where it opened into the lobby. I wanted to get the hell out of there before somebody … like Lily … saw me and started to make a fuss …

There were voices coming from the registration desk when I emerged. A young couple had their luggage standing beside the checkout counter and it looked like they were ready to take their leave. A small girl, maybe three or four years old, emerged from behind the tail of her mother's long coat and stood staring at me, wide-eyed. I recognized them as the same couple I'd seen in the restaurant the night before. The kid watched closely as I moved beyond the center of the room and started for the door.

I was taken aback when she raised her hand to wave, and called in a high-pitched 'little-girl' voice:

"Hi …"

Cute little shit … but there went my chances of making a clean getaway. I sighed and smiled at her, and waggled my fingers, doing the politically correct thing … and made the politically correct response: "Hi there. How are you?"

Evidently a direct response from her was a little beyond her ken. She disappeared behind her mom again like a rabbit down a hole. Vern and the young man both turned to look who it had been that the kid was being friendly with. I nodded and kept walking.

Quickly the young man moved toward me and grabbed the front door to hold it open. Evidently he remembered me from last night too. I felt my face growing hot, but I did glance over at him and then mumbled a 'thank you', quietly.

"You're very welcome," he said.

I hurried to my car in the cold wind, as fast as I could make it, my head full of bewilderment at the strangeness of people. This guy had absolutely no obligation to hold open a door for me … but he had. In fact, he had rushed to assist me. Once again I was pole-axed by a kindness I never expected. Was it possible that those who offered assistance were not doing so out of pity, but of common courtesy? I'd always been suspicious … "do unto others before they do unto you". And I had.

And my crappy mood left me like a rat runs out on a sinking ship. Gone.

I unlocked the door of the Dynasty, wondering what the hell I'd stepped into in this strange neck of the woods, where people smiled a little too much to be taken seriously.

Jesus! They were beginning to turn me into one of _them!_

I eased into the driver's seat and leaned the crutches across from me. The sun was shining, but the wind was blowing like crazy. The car door blew shut against my shoulder and my right knee bumped against the hand control lever. Pain raced from foot, to knee, to hip and back, making me gasp out loud Sometimes it just didn't pay to get up in the morning. For every good thing that happened, something shitty was waiting around the next corner to knock you on your ass. I felt like I had just tried to run a furlong in high heels …

I sat with my head leaning into the steering wheel for a few minutes until I calmed down. I thought about the kind man back in the lobby of the Watson Inn. He wasn't the only one. Not just here in this tiny town, but on the road on my way here. None of the people in my travels had any reason to come to the assistance of a scruffy, middle-aged scarecrow on crutches. But they had. They weren't after anything. I sure-as-hell didn't look like somebody who had just inherited a king's ransom. And no one really gave a shit anyway. They were nice because they wanted to be.

I had always avoided acts of generosity, believing them to be insincere, or offered purely on grounds of pity … or prurient curiosity … or seeking some kind of praise that their friends could hear … or just for personal gain. Pretty much all the same thing, I reasoned. I had never considered sitting down with my fears and suspicions to turn them over to my intellect for a good talking to. I was always ready to cast the first stone.

Gregory House of Princeton, New Jersey, had been a total prick … one giant stride ahead of all the other total pricks.

Kyle Calloway of Etna, New Hampshire, couldn't afford to do it that way.

 _*Yeah, you heard what I said!_

 _*I think I'm gonna be okay here. And I'm gonna put an offer on that damn old run-down apartment over there … so get the hell off my back!*_

The ghosts I'd been worried about earlier faded slowly away from the dark room of my consciousness … slowly evaporating behind the walls, through the ceiling … and out of my head.

I put the key in the ignition, started the Dynasty, and turned on the heater.

266


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

"Burning Bridges"

I BACKED OUT OF THE HOTEL'S HANDICAP PARKING SPACE AND STOPPED AT THE EXIT FROM THE LOT. THE TOWN WAS WIDE AWAKE AND MOVING. NO LONGER A SLEEPY LITTLE BURG, IT HAD COME TO LIFE LIKE A WARREN OF FIELD MICE AT THE SMELL OF GRAIN IN THE AIR. TRAFFIC WAS MOVING AT A BRISK PACE. WHILE I SAT WATCHING, CARS PASSED BY IN BOTH DIRECTIONS, AND A GUY IN A BIG BAKERY TRUCK HONKED HIS HORN AND WAVED TO SOMEONE ON THE SIDEWALK.

PRESENTLY THERE CAME A BREAK IN THE FLOW AND I TURNED LEFT. THE CAR DRIFTED ACROSS THE STREET AND PULLED UP BESIDE THE BIG BROWN APARTMENT BUILDING. THE PASSENGER SIDE TIRES MOUNTED THE LOW CURB AND CAME TO REST ON THE SIDEWALK. I STUDIED THE BUILDING'S DULL, WEATHERED SIDING FROM UP CLOSE, AND WAS PLEASED TO NOTE THAT IT LOOKED SOLID ENOUGH FOR THIS OLD A STRUCTURE. THE EMPTY APARTMENT DIRECTLY TO MY RIGHT WAS THE LARGEST IN SIZE, IF THE CONFIGURATION OF THE BUILDING WAS ANY INDICATION. AT THAT MOMENT I DECIDED I DEFINITELY WANTED TO SEE IT … WALK AROUND INSIDE IT … LOOK IT OVER … FIGURE THINGS OUT AND MAYBE MAKE AN OFFER.

THE FOLDED-UP TEN-SPOT WAS STILL IN MY WALLET, AND I PULLED IT OUT TO READ THE PHONE NUMBER I'D SCRAWLED ON IT. I DUG OUT MY CELL PHONE AND PECKED AT THE DIGITS CAREFULLY. IT RANG. ONCE, TWICE. THERE CAME A CLICK AND A PAUSE, THEN A FEMININE VOICE: "BANK OF AMERICA, LEBANON BRANCH. MAY I HELP YOU?"

"GOOD MORNING. I'M CALLING FOR INFORMATION ABOUT THE APARTMENT BUILDING ON THE CORNER OF FOURTH AND MAIN STREETS IN ETNA. COULD YOU PLEASE REFER ME TO SOMEONE WHO CAN …"

"THAT WOULD BE MISTER PERRY, SIR. PLEASE HOLD THE LINE …"

I GOT AN EARFUL OF "MOON RIVER", PLAYED ON A HARP FER CHRISSAKE.

THEN ANOTHER CLICK.

A DEEP VOICE SAID IMPARTIALLY: "WILLIAM PERRY HERE. MAY I HELP YOU?"

"YOU INTERESTED IN SELLING THAT OLD BROKEN-DOWN APARTMENT IN ETNA? IF YOU ARE, I'M INTERESTED IN BUYING. I'D LIKE TO SEE IT … AT LEAST THE EMPTY APARTMENT ON THE GROUND FLOOR. CAN WE SET UP A TIME TO GET TOGETHER?"

THE PAUSE THIS TIME WAS LONGER. THE DUDE WAS PROBABLY PEEING HIS PANTS IN ANTICIPATION. I GRINNED TO MYSELF.

"Unhh … good morning. I can do that pretty much at your convenience … Mister … ?"

The question in his voice was skeptical, but hopeful, and I couldn't blame him. Some idiot calling him out of the blue to ask about a white elephant that has been a millstone around his neck for years … I'd be a little suspicious too. How did he know I wasn't just wasting his time?

I toned it down and turned off my snark switch. I began again. "The name is Gregory House, and if possible I'd like any negotiations to remain confidential. Is it possible to look the place over today?"

His voice changed at that moment from speculative to jovial. I could almost hear the cash register in his mind ringing up a possible sale. "Of course, Mister House. You called at the right time. One question, however: since this building rents only to handicapped tenants, I need to know, up front, whether you're going to be renting or buying."

My snark returned. "I'm interested in buying … with an option to rent."

"I beg your pardon?"

I turned the sarcasm back down a peg. "Sorry. I'm interested in renting _and_ perhaps buying. I assure you, I'm more than qualified in the 'cripple' department."

Again there was a pause that was hung with silence. "The question wasn't meant to pry, sir. If I have …"

"No-no-no … " I said quickly. "I'm just super-sensitive about it. I hate when my crutches become the focus of every conversation … but, inevitably, they do. How soon can we get together?"

"How about a half hour? Are you able to meet me on the premises that soon?"

My laughter was touched with irony. "What if I told you I'm parked right out in front of the place with two tires on the sidewalk?"

He chuckled, a little more at ease than before. "Well, then I guess that puts the ball back in my court. I'll grab the file on the property and be on my way in five. My car should pull up behind yours in about twenty minutes."

"Works for me, Mr. Perry," I said.

We rang off and I settled down to wait. Turned on the four-way flashers. The wind buffeted the car and gave me a bumpy ride, even standing still.

The space between my car and the apartment building's ground-entry door left plenty of room for foot traffic to pass by unimpeded. I received a few curious looks as people walked around to the side, but no frowns of disapproval or suspicion. I figured that my handicap license plates took care of that.

I kept an eye trained between the rear-view mirror and the street.

The black and white 1990s Chevy Caprice of the local constabulary rolled slowly past me. The cop looked over and nodded, then continued on. I guessed he'd also seen the handicap plates and was giving me a free pass for now.

A blue Prius slowed to a crawl and pulled up on my back bumper a short time later. Must be the Mr. Perry I'd talked to on the phone. I opened the car door, shut off the flashers and the engine, grabbed my crutches and maneuvered out to greet the guy.

Perry came around behind me quickly and closed the door of the Dynasty out of courtesy. "Thanks," I said. I climbed the curb with extreme caution before turning to put my hand out to him. He was a youngish guy … late thirties; brown hair, brown eyes, slender, but not near as tall as me.

"Welcome," he said, taking note of the Jersey plates. He clasped my hand warmly with his own, but did not hold it long. "Gregory House, I presume. I'm Bill Perry, Chief Administrator of The Bank of America, Lebanon Branch. So you're interested in The Sylvester House …"

"So that's what it's called, huh? Pleased to meet you. Yeah, I might decide to take the white elephant off your hands if we can come to an agreement. You can call me 'House' for now, but don't get used to it. I'll explain why … later. Can we get in and away from the wind … to look around?"

Perry's eyebrows elevated in avid curiosity. "I have the keys right here, if you'll follow me …" He stepped ahead of me and walked up to the wide front door of the vacant apartment. The door opened inward and we walked into a large, very boring beige room. It looked a lot like the living room of my apartment in Princeton, except no fireplace. I looked around. It smelled musty, but it probably hadn't been entered or aired out in months. My eyes swept over the floors, ceilings, walls. Nothing worn or cracked or leaking. So far, so good. It just looked tired. Like me.

"When this place was renovated five or six years ago, the owner installed hardwood floors, wide doorways and easy-to-reach light switches. Everything here is wheelchair accessible, and the bathroom is fitted with handicap facilities.

"This is the largest apartment of the four, and the other three are leased, long-term, to their tenants, who've all lived here for years. The rooms are laid out almost exactly like this one. Only difference is, this one has two bedrooms. Both ground-floor units have back doors that lead outside from the kitchen. The two upstairs units have back doors also, but they're something like emergency exits on a plane. The door leads onto a platform that opens to the outside, and lowers one or two persons to the ground. It operates on a chain-crawl system. Doesn't need electrical power to work. Fortunately, no one has ever had to use one."

I eyed him with surprise. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "Yep. The building inspectors decided to try one of them out. It broke the seal and buzzed all the way to the ground. It cost the local authorities five hundred bucks to have it resealed and reactivated. The owner threatened to take them to small claims court if they didn't."

"In other words, you don't let your family or the kids fool around with them …" I was half grinning when I said it.

"You got that right," he replied. He held up a finger and continued. "The second-floor units also share an elevator for easy access to the main doorway out front. So you see all the bases are covered. The complex is in very good shape. It just needs some cosmetic updating. The apartment we're in has stove, refrigerator, washer and dryer and a dish washer … and a walk-in shower."

I wandered around slowly, poking my nose into every nook and cranny I could get to easily. It was well-appointed, even to dark burgundy curtains at all the windows. The paint was gawdawful, but that was easily remedied. The kitchen opened off the living room. A short hallway led to the two bedrooms, across from one another at the back; the bathroom sharing common walls between them.

When I was finished, I returned to the living room where a work table and chairs were set up with pencils and paper and brochures from B. of A. in a display box. My leg was hurting and ready for meds, and I needed to sit down. I pulled out a chair and eased into it. Palmed two Immitrax and dog swallowed.

Perry stood at my side and looked at me doubtfully. "You probably get sick of hearing this all the time … but … you look like you're in pain. What can I do to help?"

"Not much you can do," I said quietly. "I just need to rest a bit. I'll be fine. Thanks."

"Sure. You intrigue me, House. You tell me to call you 'House', but you tell me not to get used to it and you say you'll fill me in later. So. Is this … 'later' … enough?"

I looked up at him and nodded. "In a minute. Let's talk."

Perry picked up a large accordion file that he'd laid on the table when we came in. He set it down in front of the other chair and then sat down himself. "This is the file folder for the entire property. It has information on just about everything a new owner would need to know … and some he probably wouldn't. All the tenant info is in a separate envelope in here."

I drew out a thick stack of papers and began reading. And massaged my leg with the heel of my hand.

There were building code and utility assessments, tax levies for the past seven years or so, an appraisal estimate of the building's approximate worth on today's market (an amount that made me whistle through my teeth). There were insurance assessments of all four units, and another on the building as a whole. There were code appraisals for a three-car garage at the rear of the property; a structure I had not realized was there. There were precise measurements of the land boundaries by a real estate appraiser, and all the coded fol-de-rol that meant absolutely nothing to me. I assumed everything was accurate, because all kinds of goddamn agencies would be on the bank's ass real quick if they weren't. There were other miscellaneous papers there: bills for upkeep, for repairs and heat and past renovations. Old proofs of renewal and replacement of damaged or worn plumbing and electrical fixtures; stuff I had no interest in whatsoever. That's why a landlord hired craftsmen, right?

I thumbed through the rest of it and closed the file. "This says heat and hot water are furnished with the rent," I said under my breath. "Oil heat? The owner is asking a hefty price for the place, isn't he?" I asked, fishing a little.

Perry looked at me levelly and nodded. "Oil heat, yes. It's on automatic delivery. Nobody has to call for oil or worry about running out." He paused. "And the owner is dead. He died intestate."

"Oh?" I figured it had to be something like that.

"Yep. Three years ago. What you see tacked onto the selling price is mostly interest the bank couldn't legally collect for handling the estate. The owner was the sole survivor of his immediate family, and he had no dependents. Nobody wants the property because the income can't justify the bulk of the asking price. The asking price keeps going up because nobody wants it under those circumstances. What nobody around here seems to understand, is that the rents paid in are accumulating interest also, and will offset the amount of the asking price. _IF_ a buyer forfeits the rents in lieu of dismissing the interest until the amounts even out, and then begin accumulating them again ... you see? And around and around. So B. of A. holds the deed, and it just keeps bleeding out both ends because nobody wants to take the chance of having it explode all over them. It's complicated."

I looked Perry in the face incredulously. "No shit." I hadn't understood a word he said. (I'm a doctor, not a mathematician.) "Jesus! That speech just made my brain start leaking out my ears."

He laughed. "This is New Hampshire, Mr. House. They're tight-lipped and tight-fisted and straight-laced. I might as well stand on a street corner and talk to a fire plug …"

I laughed too, loud and long. "Call a meeting of your board of directors, Mr. Perry. Sit down and let them hash it out. Cut to the chase and see if we can't get all this crap untangled so it'll stop the sideways hemorrhaging. Come up with something that'll benefit your bank and benefit the IRS and benefit me. If you all can come to a decent solution, you and I and they can sit down again and sign some papers and shake some hands and it's done. You and your bank are off the hook and everyone can breathe better. I don't mess around. In the meantime, draw up a contract that will put me in this apartment as soon as possible."

Perry looked at me hard. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah. Somebody should do it, don't you think? I can afford it. If it goes south, then I've paid my dime and taken my chances. But if it works, everybody'll benefit."

"How do you know?"

"Educated guess. My parents and stepdad died the same way this man did. Except they had wills. Their estate laid dormant and bleeding just like this one for almost a year because nobody could find me, and I was sole heir. Things piled up like woolly bears under a bed. Just like this place did. I was hiding on a tropical island. Pampering my leg … hoping it would heal. Not a single soul knew where to find me because I didn't want to be found. Well, the leg didn't heal and I came back after about a year.

"Nobody answered Mom's phone when I called, and I finally contacted her lawyer. That's how I found out that she and my stepdad had both died while I was hiding out. After my real dad died, Mom married again. I knew her new husband was well off, but I had no idea _how_ well off. Plus the fact that she and my Dad had investments that laid by and accrued interest for fifty years … since before I was born. She and Dad never touched it … it was for their retirement … and then he died and she remarried. I didn't know about those either, and they piled up the same way your apartment owner's bills did. My parents and stepfather had savings that would have been the envy of King Tut. I inherited the whole works. Even after taxes and insurance and overdue bills and lawyers' fees, I'm still a wealthy man. And I wasn't poor by any means before then. The retirement money will pay for your Sylvester House three times over. And all the gimpy tenants will still have a place to live. Who the hell knows what would happen if somebody else got hold of it … ?

"I need a place to live too, and I qualify, and what's better than a handicap apartment right across the street from a classy hotel and restaurant? Can we do this, Perry? Shall we just hold our noses and dive on in?"

Bill Perry stared at me and shook his head. Then he grinned. "You bet. I'll have the lease drawn up for you by tomorrow, and we can transfer the funds and go from there. You can begin to move in the day after that."

"Huh-uh," I said. "No lease. It'll be cash. I don't want to mess around with monthly payments."

His jaw dropped, and I snickered. "Are you serious?" He asked.

"Yup. Serious as a myocardial infarction!"

There was a long silent pause, then a long indrawn breath. Perry's face was a deep shade of red. "Wow!" He finally said, "I wasn't expecting that. This will simplify things. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Bill ... and that's three times you almost swallowed your tongue."

We shook hands and that was it. I thought he might rise off the floor and float away, simply from the load I'd just lifted off his shoulders. I grinned and watched as he blew a huge whuff of air up toward the ceiling.

We continued to go over the figures and the snarled collection of money accounts until our vision began to blur. Our senses became nearly as convoluted as the interfacing of assets and liabilities spread out in front of us. We were both certain that a good team of accountants and money managers could figure it all out in a reasonable amount of time.

Probably …

Coffee was needed. And food. We decided to retreat to the Watson Inn and have lunch in their dining room. We got into our separate cars and drove across the street. Perry walked ahead of me and held open the trick door. I decided he'd eaten here before.

Lily hovered in the background as we entered. She beckoned for us to remove our coats, which we did. She hung everything, including my old newsboy cap, on the coatrack and said: "Good afternoon Bill … good afternoon Kyle."

We nodded and returned the greeting. Perry frowned when she called me 'Kyle', but showed no reaction other than a furrowed brow as Lily led us to my regular booth near the front windows.

"Coffee, gentlemen?"

We nodded and she hurried away toward the bar in the rear.

He looked at me across the table. " _'Kyle?'_ You continue to amaze me," he said under his breath. "Might this be the 'later' that you mentioned awhile ago?"

I smiled and shrugged mysteriously, and then nodded. (I could keep on playing with this forever; it had the potential of growing into a giant snowball … growing and growing as it rolled downhill.) "It's really not a big deal. I changed my name legally. Mainly because I don't want to be found."

"For God's sake, why?"

"Because I'm a fugitive from justice, that's why."

"Wha-a-t?" The volume of his voice went up a few decibels and I held an index finger to my lips to hush it down again.

"Sorry … you surprised me. A fugitive? How?"

Lily was pushing a serving cart with our coffee and the lunch menus, and carrying the milking stool. We put a lid on the conversation for a moment.

"Here is your coffee, gentlemen. Kyle, I'm going to lift your foot now …"

"Thank you, Lily … I _am_ a little sore today ..."

Gently she placed my foot on the cushion and straightened. I hissed softly; the neuropathy was spiking. She left us the coffee and the menus and hurried away again.

"Just how bad _is_ your foot problem?" Perry wanted to know.

"Bad enough that I know I'm probably going to lose my leg above the knee. That's why I'm here … to see an ortho specialist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock."

"Jesus … I'm sorry …"

"Don't be. I'll tell you the whole story over lunch. Here she comes back, by the way."

After we gave Lily our lunch orders, she placed her hand lightly on my shoulder and smiled at Bill before taking the menus and returning to the kitchen.

"She has a crush on you," Perry teased.

I looked at him and snorted softly. "No she doesn't … she thinks she's my grandmother …"

We ordered meatloaf and mashed potatoes, the luncheon special, and continued our hushed conversation. I decided that since I fully intended to buy the old apartment building and all its crazy acquisition-and-legal problems with the help of this guy, he deserved to be told the whole sordid history of my outlaw past.

So I told him about driving my car through the wall of Cuddy's house and into the middle of her dining room, and then running off to Barbados for a year. I went into the wretched account of the infarction and its evil effects on my life. I told him of my mentorship of the young doctors I had supervised for years, and about the miracle cures which had been attributed to me, but which really belonged to these fledgling geniuses who followed in the wake of my madness.

I also told him that even with all my medical acumen and instinctive knowhow I was powerless to stop the progression of the malaise in my useless leg, and the constant pain as I fought a losing battle in my attempt to keep the damned thing attached. Which meant I had to admit I didn't know as much as I thought I did. I also didn't know how to treat people like human beings who had problems of their own. I didn't know how to make friends and keep them, and I didn't bother to curb my anger when I believed I was being pitied or patronized. I was so focused on my leg problem that I had no thoughts for anything or anyone else, and I chastised everyone who even noticed …

I told him I had been introduced to the work of Ed Thoreau and his team by a total stranger. I had abruptly changed direction and come here to enlist the man's assessment and decide what to do before my health deteriorated to zero.

Bill Perry listened intently and carefully with a sympathetic ear, interjecting a few educated and speculative questions from time to time. He had known about Thoreau and his medical research team for years …

… and when he paused to think about it, he also recalled the name of Gregory House: bigmouth, curmudgeonly genius diagnostician from Princeton, New Jersey.

"Jesus!" He exclaimed. "You're _him_?"

"I'm him," I said, frowning. "But I'm trying to shake the 'God-like' image."

Perry threw back his head and laughed again. After I dropped the "Kyle Calloway" bomb, he understood, not only _why_ I prowled around incognito, but congratulated me on my ability to hide in plain sight. "Well hell," he growled, "it's not like you killed somebody. If you pay for repairs to the house, they'll probably drop the whole thing."

"That's kind of what I was thinking," I replied. "But first things first. Actually, it's kinda fun to hide under the bed sometimes …" I was beginning to like Bill Perry, and decided I could work with him. Period.

We finished our meal and left generous tips.

Perry assisted me to lift my foot off the stool and helped me get the crutches beneath my arms. He walked beside me to the front desk where he retrieved his coat. I paid the bill and exchanged a few words with Vern. After that we said our goodbyes and he left the hotel with the promise to return with a contract by tomorrow afternoon. I grabbed my coat and hat and staggered to my room to stash the crutches, hit the wheelchair and order a stiff drink or three from the bar … in that exact order.

Later, I called the storage facility in Princeton and arranged to have them haul my furniture and other stuff to Etna as soon as they could arrange to do so. I also called for painters and workmen to repair and spruce up the apartment's exterior and get it ready for a very important new occupancy:

Me!

The agreements were reached and everything would take place the following week. The movers would call me when the van hit town, and the painting contractor said their outside work could probably be done in two or three days, if it didn't snow. They would tackle the inside right after that. I agreed and we rang off.

I guessed my 'people skills' were slowly improving.

When I stopped to think about it, I realized that my need for some kind of action to combat the boredom had prompted me to buy this old apartment building with no idea how to be a landlord. To call a moving and storage company and arrange to have the rest of my belongings sent up to Eskimo Land pronto. And to take on more responsibility than I'd allowed myself to assume in ten damn years.

I had to come up for breath even thinking about it.

My incredulous 'head-voice' began bitching at me again:

 _*House, are you nuts?*_

 _*Probably … but aint it gonna be fun!?*_

My leg and foot hurt like hell. They hadn't been compensated enough for hanging around while I shot the shit with somebody for that long a time … in a long, long, _freakin'_ long time.

I'd been too damn busy to pay the pain any attention, and now it was getting even …

C'est la vie!

276


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

"A Likely Story"

WEST PALM BEACH IS ALMOST TOLERABLE DURING THE TOURIST SEASON. AKA: WINTER.

SOMETIMES I WOULD RUN THE A/C AWHILE IN THE AFTERNOON IF I WAS AT HOME, AND SOMETIMES NOT. WHEN I COULD TUNE OUT THE TRAFFIC NOISE OUTSIDE AND TAME THE CHAOS IN MY HEAD, I'D OPEN THE JALOUSIES AND LET SOME OF THE OUTSIDE AIR COME IN. EVERY NOW AND THEN I'D CATCH A WHIFF OF THE OCEAN, AND ONCE YOU'VE EXPERIENCED THAT, IT'S SOMETHING YOU NEVER FORGET. IT'S PLEASANT AND MAKES YOU NOSTALGIC FOR A CABANA ON THE BEACH.

THEN THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I JUST WANTED TO HOLE UP IN THE MAN-MADE AIR AND SHUT THE REST OF THE WORLD OUT THERE WHERE IT BELONGS.

YESTERDAY WAS THAT KIND OF DAY.

YESTERDAY IT WAS THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS SINCE I BEGAN WORKING WITH DR. THOMAS GRESH. IT WAS A VERY PLEASANT EXPERIENCE UNTIL THINGS BEGAN TO TURN SOUTH. IT WAS ALSO THE DAY I DECIDED TO TERMINATE THE POSITION AND GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE,

AND THAT'S BECAUSE I'M A CONFIRMED COWARD.

IT SEEMS I'VE GONE BACK TO BEING AT ODDS WITH LIFE. I FEEL LIKE I'M GETTING READY TO DIVORCE WIFE NUMBER FOUR. THINGS HAVE GONE SOUR AGAIN, AND THIS TIME I SWEAR I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. PATTI CAME ONTO ME AGAIN AT THE OFFICE, AND THIS TIME I WASN'T SO KIND. I TOLD HER TO STOP, OR I WOULD TELL TOM. SHE SAID I COULD GO RIGHT AHEAD; HE WOULD NEVER BELIEVE ME.

BUT HE DID.

I COULD NOT RUN OUT ON THEM IN GOOD CONSCIENCE. WHEN TOM FOUND MY LETTER OF RESIG-NATION AND CALLED, I ANSWERED AND TOLD HIM WHAT HAPPENED, AND WHY I WAS LEAVING.

HE WAS SO SAD. NOT WHAT I EXPECTED. HE SAID HE WASN'T AT ALL SURPRISED.

WHEN I ASKED WHY, HE TOLD ME THAT MOST PEOPLE WOULD NOT HAVE GUESSED THE TRUTH, BUT HE'D BEEN SEEING THINGS HAPPENING WITH PATTI FOR A WHILE. SHE WOULD CALL HIM "JIMMY". OTHER TIMES SHE WOULD REFER TO HIM AS "HAROLD", AN OLD BOYFRIEND FROM HER LONG-AGO TEENAGE YEARS.

I SAID: "UH OH …"

AND TOM SAID: "YEAH, I THINK YOU'VE UNDERSTOOD FOR SOME TIME WHAT'S BEEN HAPPENING ..."

AND I DID. I HAD KNOWN FOR DAYS …

PATTI GRESH WAS PRESENTING WITH EARLY ALZHEIMER'S SYMPTOMS, AND IT COULD ONLY GET WORSE. THERE WAS NO CURE, NO GOING BACK.

TO SAVE THEM BOTH FROM UNNECESSARY ANGUISH, I DECIDED TO REMOVE MY PRESENCE FROM THE PICTURE AND GIVE HER PLENTY OF SPACE TO FORGET ME QUICKLY. I KNEW I COULDN'T WORK THERE AND SEE HER EVERY DAY AND PERPETUATE THE PROBLEM. LIKE THE COWARD I AM, I DIDN'T EXACTLY TELL TOM ALL OF MY REASONING, BUT THAT WAS THE GIST OF IT. HE WOULD UNDERSTAND, I HOPED.

"SNEAKERS" WAS SNEAKING OUT.

I left my office keys and the key he had lent me to his private office, along with the letter. I offered no excuses. Just told him I was going. There was no defense against Alzheimer's, and I could not torture Patti, who was beginning to have delusions that I was somebody else, and in her mind she would be forever young.

Reluctantly, I said goodbye and gave him my regrets. Then I took myself out of the picture.

I called the manager of my apartment building and told her I had a family emergency up north and would be leaving the state immediately. After a short discussion, she agreed to purchase all the expensive furniture and accouterments I'd brought along from the loft in New Jersey. She was happy to get them at the price I quoted.

I stopped by her office and picked up the check. They were sorry to see me leave, she said, and she wished me well. I broke the lease and forfeited the remainder of the month's rent. From there, I went directly to a rental company and picked up a clamshell roof-top carrier to put on top of 'Vanna White'. She had plenty of room for my clothing and the small amount of incidentals that I planned to take with me.

I returned to the apartment to load up. My upstairs neighbor was very happy to take the groceries that were still in the kitchen, and I was happy it wasn't going to waste. By Saturday morning I was ready to roll.

I had no idea in the world where I was headed, but I realized I had been set free to chase down my best friend, however long it took, and give him a piece of my mind … whatever I could spare. When I found him, should I be so lucky, the first thing I would do was apologize to him for all the years I had called him a drug addict. And I would ask him to actually tell me about the severity of his pain.

Maybe we could rebuild our friendship from there.

The first day I got on I-95 and made it all the way to Daytona. I parked for the night at an obscure motel on a secondary road that also had a strip mall with a hazy view of the ocean. I checked in, showered, put on Bermuda shorts, a tee shirt and my favorite moccasins with no socks.

I bought a quick sandwich from one of the little joints along the way and took a long walk in the direction of the beach. Actually I was still second-guessing my decision to leave nearly four years of work in the dust and go off running to who-knew-where; making excuses in my own mind for being such a coward and leaving Tom Gresh in the lurch.

I couldn't resolve the dilemma now, and I doubted I ever would. Tempting an Alzheimer's patient with affairs of the heart would be extremely cruel. So I stuffed it and hoped it would work itself out someday.

Life likes to hand you 'equine excrement' when you're least expecting it, and it blindsides you like a slap in the face. You have to deal with it on the spur of the moment according to your own conscience. The same thing happened after Amber died. In the bad days when I couldn't bring myself to face Gregory House, even knowing he had risked his life for my benefit. My warring emotions drove me away from him rather than just saying a simple 'thank you'. I would need to atone for that too.

My actions back then may have been the thing that sent House over the edge. The vulnerability of my old friend comes back to haunt me when I least expect it. The long years of understanding between us came and went in the blink of an eye.

My most recent actions would have consequences of their own, but at least I now know the truth about Patti and it became a little easier to swallow.

So here I was, between a rock and a hard place once more. Tears of regret streamed down my face and were blown away to join their own element in the salty ocean wind.

I walked back to the motel and sat in the lounge, listening to a pretty girl singer with a voice about a quarter-tone flat, accompanied by an out-of-sync piano player about a half beat behind. When the waitress came over to replenish my drink, I told her to keep them coming, because I was waiting for the singer to get back on the melody and the piano player to get out of the cracks …

She smiled and walked away. And the drinks kept coming …

They closed the bar at 2:00 a.m. and I weaved my way back to my room and locked myself in for the rest of the night.

At 4:30 a.m. I was still sitting Indian-style in the middle of the bed with my laptop balanced on my knees. During the evening in the lounge, I'd been thinking about the epiphany that exploded in my head when I found the article in the California Medical Journal. Now, of all times, it was coming back to haunt me.

I'd put the article through the scanner in Tom's office and copied the crazy thing, which could only have been written by Gregory House. I dug around in my carryall until I found it, and then studied the journal's masthead and took note of the date and place of the article's submission. I thought it might give me some indication of where to begin looking for this elusive genius who always managed to stay one step ahead of me all the years I'd known him.

The damned article had been written and submitted on the island of Barbados.

* _BARBADOS? REALLY?_ *

Was that where he went when he walked away from me more than four years ago? The article was dated not long after he'd driven his car into our boss's dining room. Was he still on the damned island?

It seemed that my best clue was no clue at all.

My search was only beginning, I supposed. If he had written one missive, surely there must be more. When I checked back over the name of 'Kyle Calloway, M.D.,' I broke into a fit of drunken laughter that took me back almost thirty years …

The handsome blue-eyed fool bailed me out of jail in New Orleans for throwing a bottle of Scotch through an expensive antique barroom mirror. "I took care of it," was his only explanation for an act of generosity he would never talk about with more than an impassive shrug.

Then my evil mind suggested that his transgression was a lot more serious than mine, and he hadn't even been put in jail for it.

Yet …

"Still not boring," he'd said that day in the funeral home in Lexington.

 _*I'll find you, you bastard. I swear!*_

The real Kyle Calloway was a blondish kid with blue eyes and a scruffy mustache. He also owned an original 1955 Thunderbird convertible and played in a rock band. He chased every female who gave him a second glance, and that included the girl I wanted to take to the prom. Kyle was silly and irresponsible and shallow. His passion in life was to hook up with a rock band whose music would make it to the charts and give him enough riches that he would never have to get a job again.

My own ambition for a career in medicine was the furthest thing from his area of interest. He made fun of me because my goals never wavered and my resolve never faltered. I wondered briefly how his ambitions worked out for him.

The end came when 'my' girl asked if I would mind if she went to the prom with Kyle.

Of _course_ I minded! But I told her no … it was okay. That was the end of the friendship between Kyle and me … and also the end of the girlfriend.

I told House about Kyle Calloway _one time_. It seems now that he took the name and ran with it, because he knew I'd never spoken of it to anyone else. Leave it to House to get under my skin, one way or another.

If I wanted to track him down, I would have to do the research and the legwork, as well as locate other articles under that byline … assuming that there were others …

 _*Gregory House rides again!*_

I slept in my clothes that night, but managed to stash the laptop where I wouldn't roll over on it. I kicked the moccasins to the floor and pulled the spare blanket up from the foot of the bed to cover myself with it.

In the morning (almost noon, really), I woke up with a pounding headache, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed with chicken feathers. I rolled over to find the blanket on the floor with my laptop wide open right beside it. I struggled to sit up and shake off the resulting dizziness so I could drag both feet off the edge of the mattress and try to find the floor ...

In haste I wobbled into the bathroom, knelt and looked down at my reflection in the water. I emptied most of what I had eaten and drank last night.

When I finished and flushed, my stomach rumbled like distant thunder. I quickly reversed the orientation of body position and emptied the other hemisphere as well.

I don't think the second half of my anatomy saw any reflections in the water …

279


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

"Nesting Place"

AFTER BILL PERRY LEFT, I TOOK MYSELF TO MY ROOM AND SPRAWLED ON THE BED GASPING; ALL THOUGHTS OF ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES FORGOTTEN. THE PAIN WAS NEARLY INTOLERABLE. I SHED MYSELF OF MY JEANS AND LAY ON MY LEFT SIDE WITH BOTH HANDS TIGHTLY ENCIRCLING MY LEG. ALL THE MEDS WERE IN THE BACKPAK, WHICH STILL LAY PROPPED AGAINST THE DRESSER. I KNEW THERE WAS NO WAY I COULD MANEUVER ACROSS TO GET IT, RETURN TO THE BED AND DIG AROUND INSIDE FOR MY EMERGENCY MORPHINE KIT. I HAD TO HAVE HELP, AND THERE WAS JUST NO GETTING AROUND IT. I WOULD HAVE TO CALL THE DESK AND ASK SOMEONE TO COME BACK HERE … AND SEE ME IN THIS CONDITION … AND …

 _*FUCK!*_

I REACHED TO THE NIGHT STAND AND PULLED THE HOUSE PHONE ONTO THE BED, PUNCHED THE ZERO AND WAITED. PRESENTLY A MALE VOICE SAID: "DESK. THIS IS VERN. MAY I HELP YOU, MISTER CALLOWAY?"

I BLINKED. OF COURSE HE KNEW WHO WAS CALLING … HE HAD ALL THE ROOM NUMBERS LAID OUT BEFORE HIM. "VERN! I'M IN TROUBLE. MY LEG IS IN SPASM … CAN'T GET TO … MEDS. SEND SOMEONE BACK HERE. HURRY!"

THERE WAS A SHORT PAUSE; GETTING IT THROUGH HIS HEAD THAT I WAS HAVING AN EMERGENCY. "YES. YES, OF COURSE. I'LL BE RIGHT THERE." THE LINE CLICKED OFF BEFORE I COULD ACKNOWLEDGE. FIVE SECONDS LATER A SHORT KNOCK AT MY DOOR, THEN A KEY IN THE LOCK.

I MUST HAVE LOOKED LIKE SOMETHING FROM A HORROR MOVIE, STRIPPED DOWN TO MY UNDER-WEAR, WRITHING ON A RUMPLED BED WITH BOTH HANDS GRASPING MY THIGH. I WAS WELL AWARE THAT MY FACE WAS RED AND TEAR-DRENCHED AND CRUMPLED AND DISTORTED WITH PAIN. I WAS BEYOND THE ABILITY TO FORM COHERENT WORDS.

"WHERE IS YOUR MEDICINE, MISTER CALLOWAY? CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

I MANAGED A NOD, KNOWING THAT IF I TRIED TO SPEAK, I WOULD SCREAM. THREE WORDS; SPIT FROM BETWEEN MY TEETH: "BACKPAK! BACK POCKET …"

HE PICKED THE BACKPAK OFF THE FLOOR AND RAN TO THE BED WITH IT: SCRABBLED INSIDE THE REAR ZIPPER COMPARTMENT. FOUND THE SYRINGE AND GRABBED IT.

VERN GOT A GOOD LOOK AT THE CRATERED AND GNARLED LANDSCAPE OF MY SCAR IN ITS FULL, UGLY GLORY.

"OH LORD HAVE MERCY!" HE EXCLAIMED BEFORE HE COULD STOP HIMSELF.

Quickly, he sat down on the edge of the bed beside me and stripped the sterile wrap from the vial. "Lie back," he said. "I know how to do this."

Biting back a curse, I was shaking so hard that the bed vibrated. I looked at him, red-eyed and needy and suspicious. He nodded in reassurance as he broke open the plastic bag and pulled the pair of cheap plastic gloves onto his hands. He tied off my upper arm, assembled the cartridge, sponged the area with alcohol, wiped it, and inserted the needle cleanly while I was fighting to stifle a howl that would have had the whole hotel up in arms.

It took a long time to recover after that one. My legs felt like I'd been beaten with a club. When I tried to bend my knees, the effort was overwhelming. I shook and vibrated like a gasoline engine with a spark plug missing. When the drug finally took effect, I wilted. Even my arms and shoulders ached with the strain. My jaws hurt from gritting my teeth. I looked at my rescuer and jittered my thanks.

Vern sat at the foot of the bed watching me closely and frowning at my efforts to control my erratic movements. "You've hurt yourself, haven't you?" He asked bluntly.

I raised myself onto an elbow and leaned against the headboard, being careful not to flex my legs. My knees both hurt like hell. I did not remember straining them to the point of injury. "Yeah," I admitted finally. "I think I pulled a muscle …" I tried to make a joke of it, but it wasn't funny. "Sorry … you had to … see that." My hand went to the scar, covering it in a moment of shame. The surrounding flesh was overly warm, and the truncated muscle was clammy and still twitched intermittently. It felt like bugs crawling beneath my skin. Diminished muscle spasms made my thumbs tremble.

My veins were running full of serious morphine, but it still made me twist and writhe with post-trauma willies. "What you were just privy to," I growled, "is called 'break-through pain'. It … turns me into something that no one should ever have to witness." I slid back down against the pillow and rolled onto my side to grasp my thigh again.

Vern regarded me with a look of concern, but there was no pity in his eyes. "I've heard of breakthrough pain," he said quietly. "But this is the first time I've ever actually seen it. Takes a lot out of you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. Kind of makes me feel like a wet sponge. Thanks for responding so fast. Appreciate it."

"You're more than welcome," he said. "Happy to help. I hope you don't have to go through that again." He stood up and took hold of the spare blanket at the foot of the bed; unfolded it and settled it over my legs. "You should rest and recover from this. And you should see a real doctor as soon as you can manage it. Is there anything I can get for you?"

I shook my head and let the softness of the blanket warm me. The bugs-under-the-skin effect was beginning to diminish, and I felt myself relaxing. "No," I said. "I'll be okay now. And I do intend to see a 'real' doctor. I'm going over to Dartmouth-Hitchcock as soon as I can get an appointment. Which will probably be a couple of days from now. For now though … I'm just gonna sleep and let the drugs purge out of my system."

Then I remembered Bill Perry and his promise to bring me the papers for the big brown apartment. "A man named Perry from the bank in Lebanon is bringing me a lease to look over tomorrow sometime. I'm renting the place across the street. If he shows up in the morning while I'm still knocked out, could you or one of the staff show him back here?"

"Of course. I'll tell Jake and Jerry and Lily to be on the lookout. Do you have any idea what time?"

I shook my head. "No. He just said it would be sometime tomorrow."

"Okay then," Vern said. "We'll run the flags up … and if you come to an agreement … welcome to the neighborhood."

I smiled patiently, but wished he would just go-the-hell back to the desk and let me pass out. Every nerve in my body was telling me that I needed to sleep … and sleep …

"Later, Mister Calloway, rest well."

I lifted my head and yelled at him in an exasperated, teasing voice: _"KYLE … okay?"_

He grinned. "Kyle it is." He closed the door behind him.

I went to sleep quickly, sheltered beneath the warmth of the blanket …

When Bill Perry knocked on my door the next morning, it was nearly 10:00 a.m. I had just got out of a very hot shower, and I felt sort of spongy and weak. My legs buckled when I tried to stand, and both shoulders hurt like crazy. After the shower I pulled on a gray sweat suit, but it was too damn much trouble to try for the socks too. So I didn't bother. I draped that warm blanket over my legs and feet and called it good.

I was ravenous after having eaten little or nothing yesterday, but didn't want to appear in the dining room looking like something that belonged in a coffin. I called the kitchen to have a sandwich delivered to my room … and a couple gallons of their marvelous coffee … or whatever else they had laying around out there.

On the other end of the line, Lily giggled appreciatively, saying that she hoped I was feeling better. (I guessed Vern couldn't keep his mouth shut.) She would see to it that I would not starve to death if she could help it.

Bill Perry took one look at me, bundled in sweats and blanket, and hurried across to the table by my bed. He placed his briefcase there, pulled out one of the chairs and sat down beside it. I eyed him skeptically from the other side of the room. He studied me as though he was my nurse and I was a ten-year-old who had just fallen off the garage roof.

"My god, man, what happened to you? You look terrible."

I shrugged, and winced as the action sent ripples of pain across my back and down my arms. "You're certainly a ray of sunshine," I grumbled. "I've been better. Had a bout of breakthrough pain yesterday and I'm still trying to shake it. Are those the apartment papers?"

He nodded, still watching me. "Do you really want to do this today? It'll wait, you know."

"Nah … I need to get my brain engaged with something other than feeling like crap. I can be quite the prima-donna when I'm under the weather." I rolled closer and looked at the papers he'd brought me.

The tap on the door interrupted anything Perry might have said in return. "Come on in, Lily," I said, moving out of the way for her to enter with my food. She pushed the serving cart across to the table by the window, nodding to Bill Perry as she did so. "Good morning, Mr. Perry."

"Good morning Lily," he replied. They spoke a few more words, but I was too interested in the contents of the cart to pay attention. It was loaded with covered plates from which came wonderful aromas. I spied a tall carafe of coffee, and two mugs. (Vern must have told her Perry was here). I could smell ham, and I could see the edges of sunny side eggs peeking from under the lids of the platters. There was maple syrup and butter and half'n'half and jelly. I was hungry. Breakthrough pain will sometimes do that to you. Lily was serving up plates of hot food, pouring the coffee and setting the serving pieces on the bottom shelf of the cart. I hoped I could eat it without the aftereffects of the morphine making me sick to my stomach. So far I felt okay. So I made a silly face at her ...

… raised an eyebrow just to see her giggle. "Doesn't look much like a sandwich to me …"

"This is wonderful, Lily," Perry said. "I thank you from the bottom of my nasty black heart." He grinned like a schoolboy.

"You are very welcome … both of you. Eat your 'sandwiches' now, please. I'll be back for the cart later." She let me have a small giggle, and withdrew quietly.

We ate breakfast. Politely, but with intense interest. When we finished, our plates were clean and we had settled back, sipping at our coffee.

Perry looked at me sternly over the rims of his black-rimmed glasses. "Are you feeling well enough to get on with this, Kyle? I can always come back, you know."

I had to give him credit. He was a banker on a mission, and he had a chance to unload a pain-in-the-ass hunk of property. But he did not attempt to hustle me, and for that I gave him credit (so to speak,) in bankers' terms. He had even remembered to call me "Kyle".

I snorted under my breath. "I just had a good breakfast and good coffee, and I think most of the drugs have purged out of my system. My leg isn't killing me, and the spasms have quieted down. So if we're going to do business, we should do it now … before something else decides to kick me in the arse …"

He smiled, flashing dark eyes that reminded me of Wilson's for a moment. "All right then. Take a look at the agreement I've drawn up. It spells everything out: taxes, insurances, utilities, rents, leases, lot size … the property is exactly one acre … municipal upkeep … and this includes water and sewer. You're completely covered for weather damage, which comes under 'natural disasters' … burglary, theft, comprehensive and liability … that's in case a Mack truck runs into the side of the place and knocks a corner off."

I smirked and reached for the thick document in his hand. My own hand trembled, but I ignored it. I began to read, slowly flipping page after page.

Midway into the "therefores" and "heretos" and "whereupons" and "henceforths" I handed the thing back and looked up to face him.

"You know, Bill … my Dad made me read the Bible once. But I cheated. Two pages into Genesis I was fed up with it. I skimmed through and memorized some of the 'begats'. When Dad quizzed me later, I remembered just enough to get by. When my parents took me to church back then, I never listened to the preacher. I did equations in my head instead … so this stuff is Greek to me. Reads sort of like the Bible: most of it doesn't make one damn lick of sense. Just answer me one question …"

He frowned, but I could tell he was on the edge of laughter. "What's that?"

"You're an honest man, right? Not a shyster?"

His eyebrows went high on his forehead. "Honest as I know how. My job depends on building trust between me and the people I serve. Why?"

"Then we have a deal. Consider the place sold. The price will remain in flux until you get all the wrinkles ironed out, right? But it's not gonna be unreasonable, right? So … how about putting a 'sold' sign on the place, and I'll give you a check for ten grand to back it up …"

His face turned white, so happy was he to finally be out from under the lingering obligation. I saw him try to contain it until I thought he would blow a hole in the top of his head like a humpback whale. I signed all the "wherefores" and "heretos" with a flourish: "Gregory House". I wrote that 'ten-grand check' on the bank in Lexington. (A nice cozy number for a "lease-to-rent …")

When he hand me a receipt, I reminded him: "Don't forget, Bill … **I aint him!** Pretend you're C.I.A. You were never here and this meeting never took place. I'm just an ordinary renter. The tenants should continue to write their rent checks to 'Bank of America' … and the 'Gregory House' part will disappear into a sink hole of epic proportions. Right?"

He was laughing. "I understand completely … 'Kyle'. Someday I'd like to hear the whole story about how it got that way. I mean the **whole** story. What you've told me so far is very interesting, and for now, my lips are zipped and my eyes are glazed over ..."

He stood up then, and we shook hands. "I'll take this contract with me and have our lawyers go over it. I see no problem. You should have your final copy and the deed within about a month, and I have no reason to mention any of the changes to the tenants. If you should wish to do so at a later date, that's up to you. For now, I wish you would get some rest and take care of yourself. I mean it!"

He dug into his briefcase suddenly. "Good grief, I nearly forgot … here are the keys to your units … all of them. Two copies for each of the apartments, including yours. They're all stamped with the unit numbers: One West, One East, Two West and Two East. There are also two keys to the base- ment, one for each of the garages at the end of the lot, and two keys for the utility shed in the back yard. Maintenance men and electricians will pick up the keys they need from you and return them to you. You can begin moving into your place … 'One West' … anytime you want."

I counted off the stack of keys: a total of fifteen. As I took them into my hand I was surprised how heavy they were. Significant. I was taking on a load of responsibility. Putting roots down. I hoped I was up to it. I looked up and met his gaze. Appraising and committing at the same time. He got it. He understood my stunned look. I was the brand-new owner of the infamous "Sylvester House".

"If there is ever anything I can do to help you, let me know. We have two very good men who do the maintenance for properties the bank oversees. If you have any questions, I know they'd be more than willing to work with you. I can't picture you crawling around the basement of that place on crutches, if you know what I mean. I'm sure we'll see each other from time to time."

"Thank you," I said. And there was nothing else to say.

When he left, I sat and fingered the handful of keys, then rolled across the room and dropped them into the backpack's main compartment. No one had any need to see all those keys lying around in my room. I pulled off the ones to my own apartment and crammed them into the front zipper compartment.

 _*Holy shit! I'm a homeowner!*_

Within the scope of an hour, I had become a land owner and a landlord. 'Gregory House' was quickly becoming absorbed by the persona of this anonymous man I barely knew, and who I could mold into whomever I chose. I couldn't help being intrigued by him.

My life was changing with every breath I took, and I realized I was slowly changing with it. I was not sure where "Kyle Calloway" would lead me, and I remembered telling Wilson once that I could certainly live without him. Now I found myself hoping I could be worthy of the promise his creation held for me, and I was beginning to realize more and more that people weren't so bad if I gave them half a chance. The ones I had met lately were willing to lend me a helping hand and offer tentative friendship. Could I earn their respect as well?

Lilly came by for the breakfast cart after the hotel's lunch hour was over. I watched her nimble fingers fly over the sticky plates and dishes and pile them in stacks. She covered everything with a kitchen towel and looked across to where I sat; questions in her dark eyes.

 _*Uh oh …*_

"You look very pale, Mister Calloway," she said formally. "Are you still feeling ill?"

I gave her the standard answer. "I'm fine, and please call me _'KYLE'._ From now on. I'm very uncomfortable with formality."

"I will be very happy to do that. May I ask a question?"

I shrugged. "Sure …"

"Are you … unable to walk now?"

"What? Oh … because I'm back in the wheelchair again. I had a bad day yesterday, but I'm better. By tomorrow I think I'll probably be bouncing around again …"

Her eyes widened. "Oh no … you can't … not really … you don't bounce!"

I caught the twinkle in her eyes; she was putting me on. Playing. "Lily, you're teasing me …"

"Yes, a little. I was very worried about you, and I had to ask."

"I'm okay, but thanks. It's nice that someone cares enough to ask. And by the way, you're the first person I'm telling this to … but I'm moving into the apartment across the street. So I guess we're going to be neighbors."

She beamed. "That is very good news. The place has been empty for a long time. I am glad it is you. The man before you wasn't very nice. We used to draw straws to see who had to wait on him …"

"Really?"

She giggled again. "Yeah. But if we draw straws now, it will be to see who gets to serve you …" She pursed her lips, showing deep dimples, a little leery she'd said too much.

After she left, I slid across onto the bed, swallowed an Immy and dropped off to sleep feeling rather smug.

286


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

"Dartmouth-Hitchcock"

OKAY … I ADMIT I'M SQUEAMISH. NO USE TRYING TO DENY IT. I SIT BEHIND THE WHEEL OF THE OLD DYNASTY TRYING TO SUMMON THE COURAGE TO PUSH ON THE GAS AND GO DO WHAT I KNOW I HAVE TO DO. I HAVE TO STOP PUTTING IT OFF AND GET OVER TO DARTMOUTH-HITCHCOCK AND LOOK UP THE DOCTOR NAMED ED THOREAU. THE CONDITION OF MY LEG IS DETERIORATING STEADILY, AND I MUST HAVE SOMEONE EXAMINE IT … SOMEONE WHO ISN'T ME!

THE ODDS ARE NOT ON MY SIDE. TODAY I TOLD MYSELF THAT I WILL GO OVER TO LEBANON AND CHECK OUT THE LAY OF THE LAND AT DHMC BEFORE DECIDING TO SET MYSELF UP FOR A COMPLETE PHYSICAL EXAMINATION WITH THOREAU, THE SURGEON WHO WILL LIKELY DO THE JOB ON ME WHEN THE TIME COMES … AND I CAN HARDLY EVEN SAY THE WORD INSIDE MY HEAD …

I DO _NOT_ WANT TO HAVE MY LEG AMPUTATED. IF AND WHEN IT HAS TO HAPPEN, I WILL PROBABLY HAVE TO BE DRAGGED, KICKING AND SCREAMING TO THE O.R. WHILE A HALF-DOZEN ORDERLIES HOLD ME DOWN ON THE GURNEY. OR ELSE KNOCK ME OUT WITH A 'MICKEY FINN' STRONG ENOUGH TO SEND ME TO THE MOON.

LIKE ALICE KRAMDEN.

THIS OLD CAR HAS NEVER LET ME DOWN IN ALL THE YEARS I'VE OWNED IT. IT RECENTLY BROUGHT ME A SHIT-TON OF MILES TO THIS PLACE WITHOUT A HITCH. BUT … MY PARANOID WISH FOR A FLAT TIRE THIS MORNING DIDN'T MATERIALIZE. NOW AS I PREPARE TO TURN THE IGNITION KEY, I HOPE TO HELL IT WON'T START.

I TURN THE KEY AND THE ENGINE LEAPS TO LIFE LIKE A THREE-YEAR-OLD EAGER TO RUN. I SIGH. VERY SLOWLY AND CAREFULLY I BACK OUT OF THE HANDICAP PARKING SPACE AT THE WATSON INN AND TURN RIGHT ON MAIN STREET. I'M STILL A LITTLE WEAK THROUGH THE SHOULDERS FROM THE BOUT OF BREAKTHROUGH PAIN. I'M FULLY AWARE THAT IF I DON'T GET MOVING, THE INSTANCES OF THIS OCCURRING A LOT MORE OFTEN WILL ONLY ESCALATE AND BECOME A LOT MORE FREQUENT. I'M NOT READY TO ADMIT DEFEAT.

THERE'S NOT MUCH TRAFFIC THIS EARLY, AND I HAVE PRETTY MUCH CLEAR SAILING THROUGH ETNA ON MY WAY TO LEBANON.

And I'm here …

It's a big complex. The entire main building has to cover close to six or seven acres, and the buildings are all stark white. The name: "DARTMOUTH-HITCHCOCK MEDICAL CENTER" is spelled out in letters about four feet high on the front façade. If one of them ever comes loose and beans someone, it will be all over but the shoutin'.

There's a lot of sculpted concrete and shiny metal support columns in the front. Two glass-enclosed, box-like structures on either side of the front entrance give visitors full view of stair steps leading from the ground floor to the third. It looks very impressive. An American flag and the New Hampshire state flag adorn flagpoles close to the main entrance, their chain lanyards striking the poles and playing a metallic off-key arpeggio with every breeze.

A big semi-circular driveway with at least a dozen handicap parking spaces rings the area. But I don't want to go inside by the front door. I want to go in the back way if I can; I keep driving. I want to see everything.

The rest of the complex has to extend at least another two or three football stadiums beyond what is here. I can see other structures on the campus some distance away; landscaped and as stark white as the main one. I believe they're research facilities or specialty treatment centers. I drive slowly, looking the place over, my eyes wandering like a male dog in a field of parking meters.

There are people walking alone or in pairs back and forth between the buildings, and further on across the vista of parking lots and walkways. I can see at least two shuttle buses ferrying patients here and there across the vast well-tended grounds.

As I drive around the back of the main building, I can see two other entrances … one of them marked: "Medical Staff Only", and another one designated: "Patio". This looks like a good place to stash the car and have only a few steps to walk before going inside …

I pull up past one of the doors. There's a place to park in a spot reserved for doctors; and I qualify, I reason. When I get out and steady the crutches beneath me, the sun glinting off all that exposed glass hits me in the eyes and damn near blinds me.

When I get to the entrance, I'm pleased to note that the door slides aside before me. Nice. Just like the doors on the bridge of the _Enterprise._

I walked into a broad expanse of indoor-outdoor carpet. It was something like a reception area with wide corridors leading off in different directions with designations printed on signs above them. There was a comfortable-looking placement of office and casual furniture dotting the spaces along the walls. Across from me I saw men's and women's locker rooms adjacent to each other, and an empty coat rack in a niche in the wall to the left. There are soda machines and snack machines along the wall, and I decide this must be the "Patio".

I chose a corridor that read: "Main Lobby", and began to move in that direction. Lobbies usually held racks of brochures and local information; rows of old "brag" photographs of the institution and photos of the hospital's history and its staff, from the founding fathers to the current department heads and many prestigious administrators. If I was to find information on Dr. Thoreau, then that was the place I needed to be.

I started down the corridor, and as I walked, I felt the weakness returning from the recent bout of breakthrough pain. My leg began to tighten and I could feel my ankle pulling inward. I stopped and leaned against the wall, pulled my meds from my pocket and gulped two of them. It would take a while for them to work, and in the meantime the agitated ligaments continued to pull.

People hurried by in both directions, on their way to … wherever. Quickly I assumed my "offputting" face. The tightness in my leg persisted, making me pant and gasp. I couldn't stay here. I was coming to the end of the corridor that opened onto the lobby, a huge room with a gray slate floor and much foot traffic.

I paused, gathering myself. I had found the photographs and placards I'd expected to find.

 _*Oh great!*_

Around me on both walls were detailed site maps; framed histories and daguerreotypes and vintage photos of the history of Lebanon, New Hampshire. Faded lithographs and old pictures of the local area were there, along with washed-out sketches of the first buildings under construction on what would eventually become The Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center of Grafton County. The original date was 1797.

As I stared at the maze of old pictures, I had to blink over and over in rapid succession because they all became brightly illuminated with gold rings that rippled in and out …

I was quickly coming apart. I pretended to study the display, as well as attempting to force my knee and hip joints to straighten. Both were in a deep freeze and seemingly locked into place. A murky pall was descending over me rapidly and I fought to stay upright and conscious. That was not working either. I stumbled as the cramping and pain ramped up.

Suddenly there was someone at my side.

"Sir? Are you all right?" Deep male voice.

 _*Do I LOOK like I'm all right?*_

My angry nature rushed back full force: still attempting to push people away with waves and waves of confrontational attitude: "I'm **fine!** "

His hands rose quickly into the air, the universal sign that he would not touch me if I didn't wish to be touched. "Sure you are, my friend."

"Wait!" I was losing it and he knew.

With a swift gesture he and another guy were lowering me down, yelling at somebody to bring a wheelchair. My crutches fell to the side and clattered on the floor, drawing attention fast. As the lights went out in my little world, I saw that he was wearing a white lab coat.

 _*Fuck!*_

When I floated upward again through the sparkling confetti that awakened my consciousness, I was in a wheelchair, in an elevator … going up. There were two men and one woman standing near me, all hovering. The younger man stood a little to the side with an empty syringe in his hand. I didn't have to be told what it was. "Where are you taking me?" I asked, and my mouth felt like it had been stuffed with newspaper.

"Exam room," said the deep male voice I'd heard before.

"Oh …" stupidly.

I realized that I was leaning hard to my left side and my hands were locked in a death grip around my thigh, an instinctive reaction which had been happening a lot lately. But the taut muscle was now flaccid, thanks to the injection. Demerol. I let go and allowed both arms to slump onto the armrests of the chair.

The elevator dinged and stopped. "We're here," said the woman.

I glared up into her face, which was about the same color as Hooley's. "No shit," I mumbled, and regretted it immediately. "Sorry …"

She smiled briefly and winked, and I wondered if I was in my right mind. I felt her hand touch my shoulder softly and slide across to my neck. It felt warm and soft and comforting.

'White Coat" took the handles of the wheelchair and pushed me across the threshold into a short hallway, turning right and then right again into another room. "I take it that I have your permission to examine you. What was it that made your leg go into spasm that way? Old trauma?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Diabetic?"

"Nope. Embolism. Femoral artery. Muscle death. They let me lay and scream for three days before somebody got around to me. Had to diagnose myself when the monitors registered kidney failure and an impending cardiac arrest …"

"You're a doctor, I gather. Have you been disabled long?"

"Yeah. It's a long, ugly, boring story."

"Well, if you're so inclined, my friend, I'm all ears." He turned to his two constituents. "You two should be getting back to work. Hazel, don't get too far away. I might need you. I need to talk to our friend here, and see what's going on."

The man and woman both nodded and left with dispatch.

I told 'White Coat' about the infarction … and the some of the rest of it … even before we'd been formally introduced … including the reason I'd come all the way to New Hampshire for a consult …

I looked over at him and found him staring at me over the tops of his glasses, his top teeth clamped on his bottom lip to prevent a puzzled smile from spreading across his face."

"… I say something funny?"

"Well … maybe not funny exactly, but hellishly ironic. It seems that I'm the man you're looking for. I'm Ed Thoreau."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Well, aint that a kick in the head! Your dad told me to tell you that you and the family should go visit them sometime …"

I could see the question marks forming over his head.

I think I won the first round, by default.

 _*Damn!*_

291


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

"Following the Old Wild Goose"

I'M HEADED NORTH ON I-95, ABOUT TO CROSS INTO PENNSYLVANIA.

OLD 'VANNA' SCOOTS ALONG LIKE SHE WAS BORN TO THE CHASE. THE CLAMSHELL CARRIER ON THE ROOF CATCHES WIND GUSTS AND BOBS THE CAR AROUND LIKE A CORK ON A FISHING LINE. THE SKY IS DARKENING AND IT'S TRYING TO RAIN. MAYBE I WILL GET LUCKY AND FIND A PLACE TO STOP WHERE THE RAIN ON THE ROOF LULLS ME TO SLEEP AND I CAN FORGET ABOUT WEST PALM BEACH, GRESH CLINIC, AND THE TOO-AMOROUS LADY WITH ALZHEIMER'S.

I FIGHT THE WHEEL AND WISH THE WIND WOULD DIE DOWN A LITTLE. I HAVE THE IMPRESSION THAT I'M LOST IN THE MIDDLE OF SOME FANTASTICAL DREAM. THE MILES ARE WEARING ME DOWN. MY EYES ARE SCRATCHY AND THE SCENERY IS BLURRING, AND I NEED TO DIG MY GLASSES OUT OF THE CARRYALL.

I CAN ALWAYS TELL WHEN I'M ON THE ROAD TOO LONG. I'M TIRED OF RADIO STATIONS THAT PLAY THE SAME STUFF OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND ALL THE VOICES SOUND LIKE THE GIRL SINGER BACK IN DAYTONA: NEVER QUITE ON KEY. TOO BAD I WAS CURSED WITH PERFECT PITCH … A LATENT TALENT I SHARE WITH HOUSE.

 _*HMMM … EVEN WHEN HE'S NOT AROUND, HE IS! MY RESTLESS THOUGHTS TELL ME THAT THE ULTIMATE PURPOSE OF THIS TRIP IS TO HUNT THE BASTARD DOWN! LET HIM KNOW I'M SORRY FOR NOT BELIEVING IN HIM … AND I'M STILL HIS FRIEND … IF HE'LL HAVE ME …*_

MY BUTT IS NUMB AND MY LEGS AND SHOULDERS FEEL LIKE THEY'RE TURNING TO WOOD. I'M HUNGRY AND STIFF. IT'S WAY PAST TIME TO STOP SOMEWHERE TO RELAX AND LOOSEN THE KINKS FROM MY BACK AND GET OUT OF THE WIND, AND PROBABLY BEFORE LONG, THE RAIN.

I DITCHED RT. 95 NEAR THE CITY OF CHESTER AND TURNED ONTO 476, HEADED TOWARD ALLENTOWN. SOMEWHERE NEAR THERE I CAME IN FOR A LANDING AT A RAMSHACKLE LITTLE INDIE MOTEL NEAR WHITEHALL. IT'S IN A SPARSELY POPULATED AREA, BUT WITH ENOUGH FARMS AND RURAL FOLKS IN RESIDENCE TO KEEP IT UP AND RUNNING. IT WAS SMALL AND SET BACK OFF THE ROAD. THERE WAS A DINER AND A CONVENIENCE STORE AND A GAS STATION. THE SIGN ON THE ROOF SAID IT WAS THE "WANDER-INN". DOWN-HOME HUMOR.

NOT NORMALLY MY KIND OF PLACE, BUT THERE WERE A FEW CARS IN FRONT AND AN OLD PETERBILT CAB WITH AN EMPTY CAR CARRIER HOOKED TO IT, CURLED IN A SEMI-CIRCLE TOWARD THE BACK. I PULLED IN BY THE MOTEL OFFICE AND GOT OUT OF THE CAR. STIFFLY. WHAT I NEEDED MOST WAS A HOT MEAL, A HOT SHOWER AND A WARM BED FOR THE NIGHT … IN THAT ORDER.

I pulled my glasses out of the little glove compartment and put them on. A definitive world took shape around me and the headache began to back off right away. I checked in with a little old guy at the front desk, wearing a shirt with a nametag that read: "Howard". He told me there was chicken potpie on the menu, and the cook who ran the kitchen made the best damn chicken potpie I ever ate.

Who was I to argue with that? Pennsylvania, after all, was the "Potpie Capital of the World". Everybody knew that.

I paid for my room, took my key and told "Howard" I'd be right back for some of that potpie. I got into the VW and moved it down the long line of cookie-cutter units until I got to #8, the one at the very end. I parked, locked, checked the lock on the clamshell and went inside to set the carryall somewhere out of the way and turn on the lights. Rain was still threatening and the wind was still blowing.

The room was plain, as far as rooms go. The bed was an old double; a little saggy in the middle, but not enough to tear up my back. I pulled a couple layers of covers down and saw that the 'sheets' were flannel and smelled like lavender detergent. It was warm in there, but not hot. I set the carryall on a worn Morris chair in the corner and turned on the brass lamp that stood on a wood table beside it. The lamp spread a circle of friendly light, making all the harsh lines into an area much more inviting. There was a woolly carpet of some kind on the floor, and the walls were plain dark paneling. But it was clean.

I polished my glasses on my shirttail and looked around a little more. This would certainly do. I promised myself I would go to bed tonight and sleep 'til noon tomorrow. I thought about keeping the room for another night to loaf around and rest up; maybe do some more research on my laptop … didn't know yet. I'd see how tonight went …

The bathroom was small; just a tub along the back wall with a shower head and curtain, a toilet and small wash bowl with a mirror. Two Turkish towels and a washcloth completed the only decoration there was. I turned out the light and went back to the bedroom. I checked my wallet in my back pocket, my car keys in the right front, and shoved the room key into the left.

I turned on the outside light when I left and snapped the one in the main room out. The table lamp would suffice. I secured the door lock and wandered through the drizzle along the sidewalk to the office and the diner located directly behind it. It was starting to rain harder as I closed the door behind me and nodded to the old guy. I walked around the end of the counter and entered the small restaurant.

I found a booth near a window, took off my jacket and slid across. There were a few other diners present, but they were mostly quiet and minding their own business after looking up to see who had just come in. The thing that caught my immediate attention was … no Muzak! No canned music playing in the background and making conversations hard to understand.

A murmur of quiet voices wafted through the air, and cooking smells permeated the place. It wasn't long until a young auburn-haired woman in black slacks and a striped blouse came toward me through bat-wing doors at the back. She was carrying a small menu and a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon. "Good evening," she said. "My name is Hildy." She placed the water and menu in front of me. "What can I get you to drink? We have coffee to die for and killer iced tea. We also have soda pop … almost any kind you want … and Coors Lite and Rolling Rock on tap."

I smiled at the Pennsylvania twang in her voice and decided on the coffee. Good for what ailed me. I'd kind of had enough of the hard stuff for a while. "Hi Hildy. I'm James."

She smiled in return, a friendly sort. She couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. "I'll be right back to take your order. Tonight's special is chicken potpie, tossed salad, buttered rolls and apple pie for dessert. My Gram makes the best chicken potpie in the world."

I nodded, scanning the menu. When I looked up, she was headed back through the bat-wing doors.

My coffee arrived in a large earthenware mug. Fragrant and steaming and too hot to touch, except for the handle. I surrendered the menu and of course, ordered the potpie dinner with the trimmings. Hildy wrote my order down and asked if that was everything. I nodded and she spun around again; marched back to the kitchen. I watched her shapely behind undulating in the black pants and wished I were twenty years younger …

I added cream to the coffee and surrendered to it, warming my insides wall-to-wall and relaxing bonelessly into the booth.

Hildy was back in less than five minutes with a large deep-dish plate filled to the brim with hot food and thick gravy. Chunks of potatoes and onions and carrots were mixed throughout, and the smell was almost enough to make me salivate. The salad was crisp, the tomatoes bright red, and the house dressing smooth and vinegary. I couldn't wait to sink my fork into everything. There were two dinner rolls with tops like golden retriever's heads, and shiny from hot butter that had been brushed across them.

Hildy fussed around, positioning the plate, dishes and silverware just right. She asked if there was anything else she could get for me, and when I said there wasn't, she backed politely away and retreated to the kitchen again.

I took my time and ate slowly, savoring the kind of hearty food that defined the Keystone State. Although I tried, I couldn't finish it all. When I finally gave up and put my fork down, there was still some potatoes and gravy on the plate. There was one dinner roll left, and the big coffee mug was still a third full … getting cold.

I sighed, placed my napkin on the table, closed my eyes and leaned back in the booth. Took a sip of cold, lemony water.

The amused clearing of her throat told me Hildy was back. I opened my eyes to see her standing beside my table with eyebrows raised, obviously enjoying my lazy, contented expression. I could feel my face getting red, even as I straightened in my seat to discover that she had brought me another mug of that coffee, again steaming hot, and my slice of apple pie. She said nothing, but set herself to clearing my dishes and setting them on the stainless kitchen cart she'd wheeled up to the table.

"Pretty good supper, eh, James?" She was grinning down at me like a savvy kindergarten teacher. She paused from wiping the table and looked at me. "I thought you might like another round of coffee … just to keep your apple pie company."

"My dear," I said, "supper was delicious, but I have no room for dessert … honest …"

She laughed and pushed the cart away. "I'll bring you a 'doggy box' …"

The restaurant was thinning out. When I checked my watch it was almost 9:30 p.m. I'd surrendered my half-full cup to Hildy, and we lingered for a moment, talking small talk until the lights began to dim around us … somebody issuing a broad hint that it was closing time. I took the Styrofoam container with my apple pie and bid her good night. (I also left a generous tip.)

"Gotta go help Gram in the kitchen. Maybe I'll see you again before you leave tomorrow. It's supposed to rain all day."

I slid out of the booth and called out to her retreating back: "It was nice talking to you."

And that was the end of my evening …

The wind was blowing sheets of rain across the sidewalk and the parking lot when I left. Besides Ol' Vanna, there were only three cars and the Peterbilt still parked out front. I ducked my head and trotted down to my room. Unlocking the door took just long enough for the rain to finish drenching me from head to toe and caused me to drip all over the rug inside the room. I turned off the outside light and slid out of my jacket to shake off the rain. I hung the jacket on the doorknob.

I set the doggy box on the table, grabbed clean underwear, shut myself in the bathroom and stripped to the skin. I was shivering. Gooseflesh decorated my arms and legs. I turned on the hot water, adjusted the temperature and stepped beneath the luxurious hot spray.

That night I slept on and off with the accompaniment of the rain on the roof and the wind whistling at the windows. I dreamed of the situation I'd left behind in Florida. They probably all thought: "Good riddance, 'Sneakers'." My tangled imaginings were still searching for ways to appease my guilty conscience.

I thought of House, wondering whether I'd be just as tongue-tied when I tried to tell him how much I'd missed him, and I would never humiliate him again … if I ever found him …

295


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

"Exam Room Three"

I WAS STARTLED TO READ THE SIGN ON THE DOOR: "EXAM ROOM #3" …

I SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED, SINCE IT WAS FAMILIAR TERRITORY. I RECALLED SOME OF THE IDIOTS I'D SEEN IN SIMILAR FREE-CLINIC ROOMS IN JERSEY, WHINING ON AND ON ABOUT THEIR SYMPTOMS. I ALWAYS SAT ON THE WHEELED STOOL AND ROLLED MY EYES AT THEIR UNINFORMED INSANITY WHILE I PRESCRIBED ANOTHER BOTTLE OF M&Ms …

I WONDERED IF THIS DOCTOR REGARDED ME IN THE SAME MANNER. PROBABLY. HE HAD NO IDEA WHO I WAS OR WHERE I CAME FROM, AND BRINGING ME IN HERE FOR A QUICK LOOK-SEE WAS THE LOGICAL CHOICE. HE WOULD LOOK OVER THIS LATEST IDIOT AND FIND OUT WHAT THE SCORE WAS.

ED THOREAU PUSHED ME FORWARD INTO THE ROOM, WHICH LOOKED JUST LIKE ALL THE EXAM ROOMS AT EVERY HOSPITAL EVERYWHERE IN THE CIVILIZED WORLD. AND SOME _NOT_ SO CIVILIZED. EVEN THE WALLS WERE PAINTED THE SAME BORING: "TOOTH-DECAY YELLOW".

HE TURNED THE WHEELCHAIR AROUND AND PUT ON THE BRAKES IN FRONT OF A GREEN-UPHOLSTERED EXAM TABLE BUTTED AGAINST THE FAR WALL. "ARE YOU ABLE TO STAND LONG ENOUGH TO TRANSFER YOURSELF TO THE GURNEY, KYLE?" HE ASKED. "OR DO YOU NEED HELP?"

I SAID: "NO, I CAN DO IT." I RELEASED THE TENSION ON THE RIGHT LEG REST AND LOWERED IT, AND THEN PUSHED BOTH OF THEM TO THE SIDES. I WAITED FOR HIM TO BUZZ THE TABLE DOWN TO ITS LOWEST SETTING. CAREFULLY, I PUSHED OUT OF THE CHAIR, PIVOTED CRAZILY ON MY LEFT FOOT AND SAT DOWN ON THE SOFT VINYL SURFACE. THOREAU BUZZED THE TABLE UPWARD AGAIN AND LIFTED BOTH MY LEGS WITH EXPERT CARE AS I TURNED TO LIE DOWN. HE CONCENTRATED ON MY FACE AS HE REMOVED MY LEFT SHOE. "DID IT HURT WHEN I LIFTED YOUR LEGS?"

I SHOOK MY HEAD 'NO' AND MADE AN EFFORT TO RELAX.

HIS RIGHT EYEBROW ARCHED. HE KNEW A LIE WHEN IT WAS SHOVED AT HIM. HE QUICKLY COVERED ME TO THE WAIST WITH A SHEET AND REQUESTED THAT I LOOSEN MY JEANS. I STARED AT HIM POINTEDLY, AND HE INSTANTLY UNDERSTOOD THAT FROM A STRAIGHT, SUPINE POSITION, I WAS NOT ABLE TO REMOVE MY OWN BLUE JEANS.

HE WAS TESTING MY REACTIONS WITH EVERY REQUEST. I CAUGHT ON QUICKLY. I ALREADY KNEW HE HAD FIGURED OUT THAT I WAS A DOCTOR ALSO …

HE NODDED TO HIMSELF, PURSING HIS LIPS TO A THIN LINE. NO PITYING LOOKS; JUST BUSINESS. "UNBUCKLE YOUR BELT AND UNZIP YOUR PANTS. LIFT YOUR BUTT AND I'LL PULL 'EM STRAIGHT OFF. READY?"

I NODDED BACK, BRACED MYSELF AND DID AS HE REQUESTED. HE EASED OFF MY JEANS LIKE PULLING THE CASING OFF A SAUSAGE, AND PLACED THEM TO THE SIDE. HE ALSO SLID BOTH MY SOCKS OFF BY DRAWING THEM DOWNWARD SLOWLY AND STEADILY BY THE TOES.

"I'M GOING TO TAKE A LOOK AT YOUR LEG AND FOOT NOW, OKAY?"

AGAIN, I NODDED, INSTANTLY WARY. I COULD FEEL MY BODY CLENCHING INSTINCTIVELY; ALL MY PROTECTIVE REFLEXESS IN PLAY. I GRABBED THE EDGES OF THE GURNEY AND HELD MY BREATH.

"RELAX, PLEASE," HE SAID SOFTLY.

I TRIED.

As had been my practice for more years than I can count, my attention was forever centered on shielding my bum leg from potential harm. No bumps, no sudden shifting of weight, and no sharp movement that could cause extra pain. At least that was always my intent, although in reality life doesn't treat cripples quite that well. I always experienced my share of lumps and bumps because of what I did for a living. It's difficult to keep a lame leg out of harm's way when you're working with nervous patients. Hard to keep it out of harm's way, _period!_

Watching this man standing over me now, I could read his intentions in his eyes. But my basic instincts also told me he was an ally.

And no … he didn't think of me as an idiot.

Thoreau lifted the sheet away from my right leg and bent down for a closer look. I crossed my arms stiffly beneath my head and watched him like a hawk as he scrutinized every inch of the offputting mass of scar tissue. After about thirty seconds, he asked for my permission to touch it, even while drawing on a pair of rubber gloves. Eyebrows raised, I nodded, holding my breath.

His hands were soft, cool, and extremely cautious. He ghosted his fingers slowly across the thick rim of keloid neoplasms, and into the atrophic chasms where my quadriceps muscle had once resided. I stiffened. There was no jolt of actual pain; it was pure reflex action on my part. The nerve endings were so close to the surface that even his gentle touch caused me to recoil sharply. The sensation I experienced was more along the lines of mild electrical shock … like the little traumas that make you jump when you rub your hand across something made of wool and then touch metal.

"You're in varying degrees of pain most of the time, am I correct?" He murmured.

"Yeah … pretty much. There was an embolism in my femoral artery. The only symptom was agonizing pain, and they misdiagnosed because they thought I was a drug user. When they finally operated, the muscle had died."

"I'm looking at the residual evidence from two surgeries here, right?"

"Three," I offered quietly. "They botched the first one because they waited too long. The second one took place without my permission when they went in again and removed the vastus lateralis and part of the vastus intermedius. Muscle death. They removed the necrotic tissue with a backhoe, I think. That's why there are keloid and atrophic scars in the same area. The wound was twice as wide and it had to heal from the inside out. One of those geniuses nicked a nerve bundle. When the nerve endings misfire, the leg seizes or goes into spasm. That's how I became addicted to opiates. Couldn't take the added pain on top of everything else. I still have issues with that."

"Why was there a third surgery?"

I hesitated a moment, but the truth would have to come out eventually. I took a deep breath and took the plunge. "My fault. I visited an experimental lab and pretended to be interested in their research. I stole some of the vaccine and injected myself with it. I was desperate for any kind of relief. Anything. But it caused tumors to form above my knee.

"I tried to perform surgery on myself to remove them before they metastasized, but I got the shakes part way through and couldn't finish. Ended up in the emergency room where they did more meatball surgery. It hasn't healed right since then, and I know now that it never will. I haven't been able to bear weight for a year. The calf is atrophied … my knee doesn't bend unless I do it manually … and my foot is going into contracture and inversion …"

Thoreau straightened and looked down at me as though my need to explain these facts to him was overkill of the highest level. Surprisingly, he ignored my confession. "I'm going to check your foot now, okay?" He sat down on a wheeled stool that stood nearby, and glided slowly to the end of the gurney.

I sighed; pulled my arms down and was barely aware that my right hand had moved almost immediately to cover the scar. "Go ahead. I have a neuropathy issue that drives me crazy, and I have trouble trying to reach it …"

He nodded. "Understood." He cupped my instep in his left hand as he quickly snapped my ankle back into line with the right.

"I wasn't expecting that," I gasped.

"Hurt?"

"Oh yeah …"

He placed my foot back on the table and looked at me. "I'm sorry for hurting you. It's all necessary to evaluate you correctly. If you continue here, there is a long series of tests and treatments while we determine the best course to take in your procedure. I'm going to give you a shot of Lidocaine now, and cut your toenails. They're wa-ay too long. When was the last time you were actually seen by a doctor?"

"Quite a while. Why?"

He smiled, definitely in a sardonic manner. "Oh … probably because of that judgmental gleam in your eye. You've been treating this yourself … and you're your own worst patient." He was smiling. "No insult intended."

Thoreau opened a drawer and removed a tiny syringe with the numbing drug. "It's obvious that you're in a hellish amount of discomfort and trying to keep it under wraps. I'm only interested in deducing what's going on. I understand that you're wary of all this. You get no real sympathy from anyone, because nobody realizes what chronic pain can do. All you get is sad looks and prurient stares."

He swabbed the area below the talus and inserted the needle. A pinch and done. My foot numbed very quickly. It was almost nirvana to feel nothing. And gratifying to know that somebody else knew the score.

Silently, I watched him lop off my ugly yellowed toenails with a pair of medical clippers that looked like it could snap the cables on the Golden Gate Bridge. He cupped his opposite hand over the top of my toes to keep chunks of keratin from hitting the walls like tiny projectiles. When he finished, he asked whether my other foot needed a similar trimming; and I scoffed. "That one I can reach."

'That one' made him laugh …

I watched further as he palpated the tightened ligaments of my right ankle, gently twisting and turning and otherwise manipulating the entire foot. If it hadn't been as limp as a dead fish from the anesthetic, I would probably have gone right through the ceiling. However, with the Lidocaine's action and the diminishing effects of the Demerol as my ankle was carefully rotated, I found that I was lying there watching him as he diagnosed and experimented and gradually extended his reach toward the calf. I remained pleasantly relaxed while he worked.

He caught me off guard … again … by pushing suddenly against the ball of the foot, causing my Achilles tendon to extend. I quickly ouched away from him.

"Hurt?"

I gasped. "Yeah. Felt that one all the way to my ass cheek. It's not numbed up there …"

He smiled. "Tell me _exactly_ what you felt when I pushed on it." His eyes darkened and he stared at my face as though any answer I gave might solve a problem he'd been anticipating.

"The skin around the scar tightened. I felt pain deep in the bone. It stopped when you let go, but it ramped up my leg again, and the effects of the drugs are backing off as we speak."

Thoreau placed my foot down gently on the surface of the gurney and turned back to the drawer where he'd found the drug and syringe. I saw him withdraw a black, open-toe, open-heel compression brace with bone staves covered with soft velour. He drew it over my foot to just below the knee and positioned it quickly, before the anesthetic had worn off completely. Next, he grabbed my sock; pulled it over my toes and over my ankle. "This might help correct the inversion, or at least slow it down. They're samples. Something brand new … we have a bunch of 'em. Try it for twenty-four hours. If it hurts after that, take it off, or recruit somebody to take it off for you. Guess I really don't have to tell you that …

"From your reactions and some other things I noticed, you're definitely going to lose your leg at some point. I'm sorry. There are too many signs presenting here to ignore. And you're right: it won't get better. Only worse. You're run down from fighting the pain, and that's definitely not good. I'll give you time to consider, but you should set up further appointments. Would you like me to do that?"

He replaced the other sock and reached for my jeans and shoe. He assisted me to put them back on and steadied me as I sat up and slid my feet over the side.

I looked away from him and stared at the ceiling. "It's not like I didn't know what's going on, Doc … so yeah … let's get it done with."

"You're fully aware then … ?"

"Truthfully? I knew how it was eventually going to go the first time a crowd gathered around my bed to learn how to change my bandages and tend the wound. I've been fighting to keep my leg for going on twenty years, but I've also seen the writing on the wall. It won't be much longer. When I heard about you, I decided this was where I should be if I wanted the job done right. I saw some of your team's handiwork in Binghamton, New York … a man named Samuel Adams. He uses one of your earlier prosthetics, and I wouldn't have known if he hadn't showed it to me."

Thoreau smiled. "Samuel. Tall guy. Bald. Has a stud in his ear and a rock on his pinkie finger. Yeah … I remember Samuel very well. I liked him. He takes his name very seriously. He let me use him as a guinea pig for a new product. Now there are about a hundred of them in use."

"He said you'd remember him … asked me to say 'hello' …"

For the first time I saw Thoreau's face redden in embarrassment. "Thank you, Kyle. It's always nice to receive a vote of confidence. When the time comes, I will be happy to do my very best for you too."

He knew I was spent and exhausted before I knew it myself. He saw me getting nervous and antsy; stirring uncomfortably and needing to move to combat the prickling neuropathy. I needed to take my meds and get to the head … in that order.

He stood and held out a hand so I could stabilize myself on the gurney. He saw that I was light-headed. I grasped his arm firmly to pull myself forward and reach for the back of the wheelchair, which was still locked in place.

Thoreau quickly lowered the gurney until my foot touched the floor, and then unlocked the chair's brakes. He steadied me while I transferred myself from one seat to the other. I aimed for the open door of the head and rolled inside. Closed the door behind me.

I relieved myself, washed my hands and listened to him talking on the phone to somebody.

When I rolled back out into the room, the tall, exotic APRN stood beside the gurney with my crutches in her hands. Thoreau was nowhere in sight. I suspected he had already left to consult with the other members of his surgical team.

"I need to ask you a question, Dr. Calloway," she said softly.

It hadn't taken Thoreau long to inform her that I was, indeed, a doctor. Her soft, dark eyes looked at me with such compassion that I could almost feel myself drowning in them.

I looked up expectantly. "What's that?"

"Are you able to drive home? If not, we'll have someone drive you, and someone else will follow along in your car …"

"I'm sure I can drive, Ms. … ?" I said.

"My name is Hazel Braddock."

"Hi Hazel … nice to meet you. My car has handicap controls, and I've driven many times when I was in far more pain than I am right now."

"You're sure?" Her head was cocked and those eyes were throwing sparks in my direction.

I smiled innocently, but I'm sure she could feel the icicles in my return glare. "I'm sure. I've been like this a long time …"

She walked along beside me to the elevator and we rode back to the ground floor. When I transferred from the wheelchair to my crutches near the back door where I'd entered, she walked along outside and opened the car door for me. "Dr. Thoreau is going set up an appointment for you to meet his team and have them do a follow-up examination of your leg; examine the density of your femur. Run some tests. We'll be in touch within the next week or so. In the meantime … nothing strenuous. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Calloway, and we'll see you again."

I thanked her sincerely and assured her that "strenuous" was no longer in my vocabulary.

When I drove out of there, I thought of the all bullshit that would happen at one time: I would receive the final deed to the Sylvester House; the painters would do the outside work and then move inside and put new colors on my walls.

My stuff (Holy shit!) would arrive from Princeton, and I'd have to figure out where to put everything. And I still needed a chair and a sofa.

In the middle of all this, I must begin an involved series of tests to determine the precise area of my leg where they would eventually activate the buzz saw …

I also knew I would be the Thoreau Team's next "Big Project".

I could still see Hazel's striking face in my rear-view mirror as I turned the car onto the road back to Etna.

 _*Holy crap! All this stuff going on at once … I'll be cooped up over Christmas. Bet me!*_

I aimed the Dynasty toward Etna and poured on the gas …

302


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

"Pennsylvania Dutch Country"

IN THE MORNING IT WAS 'RAINING CATS AND DOGS', AN EXPRESSION I HAD HEARD FROM EARLY CHILDHOOD, BUT HAD NO IDEA WHERE IT CAME FROM …

ALL NIGHT I HAD BEEN ROUSED OFF AND ON BY GUSTS OF WIND AND RAIN HITTING ON THREE SIDES OF THE MOTEL'S END UNIT. THE DISORIENTATION MADE ME FEEL LIKE I WAS IN THE LOWER BUNK OF AN OLD WINDJAMMER, OR A GALLEON TOSSED ON THE SWELLS OF A STORMY SEA.

SOMETHING HANGING AGAINST THE OUTSIDE WALL KEPT SWEEPING BACK AND FORTH ACROSS THE CEDAR CLAPBOARD SIDING LIKE A COIL OF HOSE TIED WITH CLOTHESLINE. AND SOMETHING ELSE … MAYBE A LADDER … OR AN UNLATCHED DOOR … BANGED AGAINST THE BUILDING INTERMITTENTLY. I PULLED THE BLANKETS UP OVER MY HEAD AND SNUGGLED DEEPER; COMFORTABLE AND PLENTY WARM ENOUGH. I JUST COULDN'T HELP FEELING AS THOUGH I WAS DEEP IN THE BOWELS OF AN ENGLISH MERCHANT SHIP HEADING STRAIGHT INTO PIRATE-INFESTED WATERS.

BY 7:00 A.M. THERE WAS NO SIGN OF DAYLIGHT, AND THE RAIN KEPT COMING. I GOT UP AND WENT TO THE BATHROOM, FINISHED UP AND THEN SCOOTED BACK UNDER THE COVERS. I CATNAPPED FOR AN HOUR OR SO LONGER UNTIL DAYLIGHT FINALLY MADE A RELUCTANT APPEARANCE THROUGH THE WINDOW ACROSS FROM THE BED.

 _*BR-R-R-R-RRR …*_

JUST LOOKING OUT THERE GAVE ME THE SHIVERS. THERE WERE SOME LIMBS DOWN BENEATH A COUPLE OF THE TREES ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PARKING LOT. DEAD LEAVES BLEW THROUGH THE WIND AND RAIN AS THOUGH TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM SOMETHING ANGRY BEARING DOWN ON THEM. PUDDLES IN THE FRONT LOT LOOKED TO BE SIX FEET DEEP. I LET MY EYES MOVE OVER THE VOLKSWAGEN AND ITS CLAMSHELL LUGGAGE CARRIER, LOOKING FOR SIGNS OF WIND DAMAGE. NOT SURPRISINGLY IT STOOD LIKE THE ROCK OF GIBRALTER; UNDISTURBED BY MOTHER NATURE'S WRATH.

I COULD HAVE USED A HOT CUP OF COFFEE AND SOME BREAKFAST, BUT REALLY HATED TO THINK OF DODGING THROUGH THE MONSOON OUTSIDE. BERMUDA SHORTS AND LEATHER MOCCASINS WITH NO SOCKS WOULD CERTAINLY BE AN UNWISE DECISION. I KNEW I WOULD HAVE TO DIG OUT JEANS, SHOES AND A WARMER JACKET. I WALKED OVER TO THE WINDOW AND LOOKED OUT. THERE WERE FOUR CARS AND A PICKUP TRUCK PARKED OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, BUT THE OLD PETERBILT AND ITS EMPTY CAR CARRIER WERE GONE. I FINALLY THREW MY LEGS OVER THE EDGE OF THE MATTRESS AND TURNED ON THE BEDSIDE LIGHT. IT WAS 8:30 A.M. AND I WAS COMPLETELY SLEPT OUT. I QUICKLY DECIDED AGAINST TRYING TO DRIVE IN THIS KIND OF WEATHER. TODAY WOULD BE A "LAPTOP" DAY.

I took a while getting things together; glad I'd dragged my carryall out of the car yesterday. I dug deep into it and uncovered some comfortable old jeans, heavy socks and shoes, and a couple of flannel shirts that had spent nearly four years packed away in a closet in West Palm Beach. There was also a navy blue quilted jacket that was squashed in on itself even worse than the shirts. I shook it out furiously until it puffed up and came back to life.

While I was at it, I pulled the laptop out of the opposite side of the carryall and plugged it into the nearest receptacle. It could charge up while I ventured out for breakfast.

I bundled myself up for the trip to the office. I didn't know where the hell the old baseball hat had got to, but decided it was still buried in the car somewhere. I wasn't going to get soaked while I dug around for it. I grabbed my car keys and the room key, threw the latch on the door and took off at a trot. I hurried with head down and shoulders hunched, along the walkway to the office, and blew in the door like a pile of restless leaves tossed by the wind.

The same older man I'd seen behind the counter yesterday was there again this morning. The tee shirt with the name "Howard" had been replaced by a flannel shirt with the same plaid pattern as mine. I smiled at him as I took off my jacket and pointed to my shirt and then his. He took a look back and forth and grinned. "I see we have the same exquisite tastes, eh, Mr. Wilson?"

"Always nice to meet a kindred spirit, Howard. I came down for breakfast, and I believe I'll stay with you again tonight. I don't think I want to start out in weather like this." I took out my wallet and pushed another bill across to him like I'd done yesterday. He took it, rang it up, and started to make change. I stopped him. "Oh no … no change. I'm extra hungry this morning."

He grinned and gave me a sloppy highball salute. "Appreciate it. Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," I said. "I felt right at home. One thing though …"

He paused to look at me.

"Something out back was banging on the outside wall of my room. Like a ladder or a loose door, or something made of wood that's hanging loose and getting blown around by the wind. Maybe you could have someone check it before it does some damage to the building …"

"There's a step ladder out there," Howard recalled. "Hanging on hooks. Probably an end came loose. Thanks for letting me know. If I don't check it, one of the boys will."

I nodded then, returned the highball salute and headed for the dining room with my jacket clamped under my arm.

I took the same booth as the night before and slid across by the window to look outside again. By the edge of the road, rainwater formed a shallow ditch and was rushing along like a small river. The rain didn't show any signs of stopping, so I would probably spend the rest of the day searching email addresses of all the medical journals I could think of, hunting for clues of the elusive creature known as "Dr. Kyle Calloway".

Hildy wasn't on duty this morning, but 'Gram', I assumed, was. The woman who approached me with the breakfast menu and glass of water was farm-housewife stout, dressed in black skirt and striped shirt, and looked to be about the same age as my parents. I decided a good way to find out would be to ask.

"Good mornin'," she said. "Little 'juicy' out this mornin', hain't it?" She placed the menu and water before me and stood poised with pencil and pad.

Old fashioned Pennsylvania Dutch lady, I decided. "Yes ma'am. Are you the lady that Hildy calls 'Gram'?"

She beamed, her whole face lighting up. "I am!" She said enthusiastically. "You met our Hildy, huh?"

"Yes I did. She served me dinner last night. Very nice girl."

"She is that. And what can I get you this morning, sir?"

I ordered creamed dried beef on toast, a dish of mixed fruit and one of their huge mugs of coffee. 'Gram' scribbled everything down, picked up the menu and departed. I sat staring out the window at the rain and wondered if it would ever stop …

When I was finished, I walked out to the front and put my coat on. Howard informed me that everything at the back of the building on my end had been battened down or put away in the shed. I should no longer be bothered by noises in the night. I thanked him and went out the front door, hunching against the rain and the wind as I had done before, and loped back to my room.

The rest of the afternoon I sat holed up on the bed with my laptop settled across my knees on one of the bed pillows. I began by Googling every medical journal I could find in the US of A … and if that didn't work, I would cross the borders and try the rest of the world. No stone unturned, I thought.

Seven o'clock that night, I had gone through four cups of coffee, four filled donuts and about half the medical journals in the United States. So far, unsuccessfully. I had run to the bathroom three times and I was getting hungry for regular food. It was long dark and the light beside the bed reflected off the window beyond. It was still raining, bouncing off the glass in sheets.

I closed the laptop and placed it on the bed. Made sure all my keys were in my pockets, turned down the lights, locked the door and made my fourth run down the sidewalk to the "Wander Inn" diner.

Hildy was back, waiting tables for the evening shift. She had seen me coming, shaking the rain from my jacket, and had the coffee ready. I greeted her and slid into "my" booth. "Hi James. Think God's mad enough to drown the world again?" She was grinning when she said it.

I shrugged. "I dunno … but if he is, I can't say I blame him …"

The restaurant was not crowded; far from it. I counted eight others seated here and there. The lights were turned low and the conversations, if any, were turned even lower. Outside, the rain continued in monotonous rhythm and lights in the parking lot illuminated limbs of trees moving in an undulating Samba rhythm in time with the wind.

Hildy paused by my table, refilled my coffee cup and looked at me skeptically. "James, you remind me of someone who would rather be anywhere in the world but here …"

I lowered my head and smiled in discomfort. "You're only partly right on that one," I said. "I don't mind being here … I'm just kind of up to my neck with this damned rain. It kind of drags you down when the world you live in keeps telling you you're not welcome …"

She smiled. "I wish you fair weather soon, so you can be on your way."

"Thank you."

I took a mug of coffee and a filled doughnut back to the room with me.

Was it just me, or was the wind beginning to die down? Was the rain slacking off too, or was it just my wishful thinking? Ah well … there was an infinite number of medical journals somewhere in the ether waiting for me … and one of them was the right one to give me a clue to that wil-o-the-wisp that was my ex-best friend.

Gregory House was out there … _somewhere …_

READERS, PLEASE NOTE:

I'm posting this chapter early because:

is not allowing me to answer your reviews. It says the reviews cannot be found, and therefore not answerable. When I try to fix it, a site comes up to be installed on my comp., and I don't trust it. Please be advised that I always read your reviews and answer them. If I can't do it anymore, I sincerely apologize. Thank you, Bets;) 7/3/15

305


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48

"Transition"

Note to readers: Your reviews are landing in my inbox. I just can't answer them in the normal way. I've found that I can click on your profiles and comment on your reactions that way, so please keep 'em coming. I would hate to lose touch. Thanks, Bets;)

…

THE VAN WITH MY HOUSEHOLD STUFF ARRIVED FROM PRINCETON THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY MORNING. I SAW IT PULL UP ACROSS THE STREET AND STOP WITH THE TAIL GATE PARALLEL TO THE APARTMENT THAT I WAS MOVING INTO. I SAW THE FOUR-WAY FLASHERS COME ON AND TWO BURLY MEN SPILL OUT OF THE CAB OF THE NICE LITTLE FOURTEEN-WHEELER. THEY OPENED THE BACK DOORS AND SECURED THEM TO THE PLATES ANCHORED TO THE SIDES OF THE TRAILER BODY.

THERE WAS ALSO A GAGGLE OF PAINTERS HIRED BY THE CREW THAT DID THE MAINTENANCE ON THE SYLVESTER HOUSE. THEY WERE SETTING UP SCAFFOLDING TO SCRAPE AND REPAINT THE BUILDING BEFORE WINTER TOOK OVER COMPLETELY. FUNNY THEY SHOULD DECIDE TO BEGIN TODAY. I SMILED TO MYSELF WHILE BOTH CREWS LOOKED EACH OTHER OVER, AND THERE WAS A LOT OF HAND GESTURING UNTIL THEY APPARENTLY WORKED THINGS OUT ABOUT WHO MIGHT OR MIGHT NOT GET IN WHOSE WAY. I WATCHED FOR A FEW MINUTES AS THE SYLVESTER HOUSE CREW BUILT A VERY ELABORATE SCAFFOLDING BRIDGE ON THE SIDEWALK THAT LEFT THE FRONT DOOR AND FRONT PORCH COMPLETELY UNOBSTRUCTED.

I WAS HAVING BREAKFAST IN THE DINING ROOM OF THE WATSON INN, AND I BECKONED LILY TO MY TABLE.

SHE HURRIED OVER AT ONCE AND ASKED WHETHER I WAS ALL RIGHT. I SMILED AND ROLLED MY EYES: SHE HAD BECOME MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. I POINTED TO THE SCENE ACROSS THE STREET. "TAKE A LOOK AT THAT! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?"

SHE LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW AND FROWNED. THEN GIGGLED. "YOU HAVE BROUGHT A BIT OF MAGIC WITH YOU TO ETNA, KYLE CALLOWAY," SHE SAID.

I GAVE HER ONE OF MY 'LOOKS', AND SHE GIGGLED AGAIN. "COULD YOU HOLLER FOR JAKE OR JERRY AND ASK ONE OF THEM TO COME GET MY KEY? SOMEBODY HAS TO LET THE FURNITURE GUYS IN …"

SHE NODDED, TOUCHED MY ARM AS SHE ALWAYS DOES, AND HURRIED BACK TOWARD THE KITCHEN. THIRTY SECONDS LATER, JAKE, THE GOOFY KITCHEN GUY, CAME STRIDING THROUGH THE DOOR WIPING THE STEAM OFF HIS GLASSES AND SOAP SUDS OFF HIS HANDS ON A STAINED WHITE APRON. HE WALKED UP TO MY TABLE AND SLID INTO THE BOOTH ACROSS FROM ME. "WHAT'S UP, KYLE? LILY SAID YOU ASKED FOR ME."

I DANGLED MY KEY CHAIN IN FRONT OF HIS STARTLED FACE, GRINNING WIDELY AT HIS TOTAL LACK OF COMPREHENSION. I POINTED OUT THE WINDOW TO THE ACTIVITY ACROSS THE STREET. "WOULD YOU MIND UNLOCKING MY APARTMENT? ALL MY STUFF JUST ARRIVED, AND THEY NEED ACCESS. TELL EVERYBODY I'LL BE OVER AS SOON AS I CAN GET THERE."

"SURE, KYLE," JAKE SAID, FOLLOWING THE DIRECTION MY FINGER WAS POINTING. "RIGHT AWAY. LOOKS LIKE A TEAMSTERS' CONVENTION OVER THERE." HE SMILED, TOOK THE KEY AND HEADED FOR THE FRONT DOOR. A MINUTE LATER I SAW HIM GESTURING AND TALKING TO ONE OF THE PAINTERS AND THE DRIVER OF THE VAN. THE TWO OF THEM LINGERED A FEW MOMENTS. THEN JAKE TURNED AND POINTED TO THE WINDOW WHERE I STILL SAT FINISHING BREAKFAST. BOTH MEN SHADED THEIR EYES, SQUINTED IN MY DIRECTION AND THEN NODDED. JAKE NODDED TOO, AND TURNED AROUND TO WALK BACK TO THE HOTEL. HE CAME INSIDE AND SEATED HIMSELF ACROSS THE TABLE FROM ME AGAIN.

"I TOLD 'EM YOU WOULD BE OVER TO TALK TO 'EM IN A LITTLE WHILE, AND I MENTIONED THAT YOU WERE HANDICAPPED … AND THEY SAID THEY FIGURED THAT, 'CAUSE THEY ALREADY SAW THE SIGN. SO ANYHOW, THEY'RE ALL GOING TO GET STARTED. YOUR MAINTENANCE GUYS WILL DO THE SIDES FIRST AND THEN GO AROUND BACK. THE MOVERS WILL HAVE CLEAR SAILIN' PUTTING YOUR STUFF INSIDE, AND WHEN YOU GET OVER THERE, YOU CAN LET 'EM KNOW WHERE YOU WANT EVERYTHING."

JAKE HELD OUT HIS HAND AND I REACHED ACROSS THE TABLE. HE DROPPED MY KEYS INTO MY PALM AND GRINNED. "I COUNTED 'EM. THERE'S TEN GUYS OVER THERE … GO FIGURE …"

I THANKED HIM, AND WARNED HIM (WITH A STRAIGHT FACE) NOT TO CALL ME "HANDICAPPED" ANYMORE. WHEN HE MADE A GOOFY FACE AND ASKED WHAT THE HELL HE SHOULD TELL PEOPLE INSTEAD, I SAID: "TELL 'EM I'M A SPRINT CAR DRIVER THAT HIT THE WALL!"

JAKE GUFFAWED AND HEADED BACK TO THE KITCHEN. "SEE YA LATER, KYLE … YA GOOFBALL!"

I watched him go, and thought to myself: _This might turn out to be a pretty decent day. What's that expression about days like this … ? 'The first day of the rest of your life'? Yeah. Like that! This time maybe I can get it together._

When I came back from the medical center the other day, I went straight to my room at the hotel. I felt scared and achy and vulnerable as hell. Thoreau had confirmed my worst fears about the probable loss of my leg. The frightening truth of all my years of denial hit hard and fast. I had harbored that fear in the back of my mind for a long time; kept it buried deep inside and let it fester until it came out in the shakes I experienced at night, and the salty sweat that saturated my body. The fear kept me secluded deep inside my own _self …_ as though to show anything in my face would shout my secret vulnerability to the whole world.

I had bad dreams that same night and woke up shaking like someone who was being pursued by private demons. And of course, I was. I was in excruciating pain that extended from my foot all the way to my hip. I was holding my breath and biting my lip to keep from screaming. The brace on my foot had to come off immediately.

In desperation I'd dragged myself to the bathroom and tore a towel rod off the wall. I used the metal crossbar to push the brace down and off over my heel. I tossed it in the trash. Later, I told Vern I had lost my balance and grabbed the towel rod to keep from falling. He believed me and sent Jerry the maintenance man to patch the wall and install another rod. After that I wondered how long it would be until I could not even tolerate a regular sock on that foot …

This morning I feel better, and now that the truck is here and the painting crew has descended, I will have something constructive to do. I pulled myself together, stopped woolgathering and made ready to stomp over there to let those guys know where to put things in the apartment. I thought about the comfortable, eclectic little bachelor pad I'd kept back on Baker Street, and decided to arrange what was left of my furniture as close as I could get it to the way it had been back there.

I slid out of the booth after leaving a generous tip for Lily, settled the crutches beneath me and started for the lobby.

Vern was expecting me … Lily had probably alerted him that my furniture had arrived across the street, and I would soon be moving. He held my jacket so I could reach the sleeves, and helped me put it on.

 _*I am still astounded when these people show me more than the minimum of kindness, and I can never figure out what in hell I might have done to deserve it. They've been doing this stuff for me from the day I arrived here, and with such consistency that I've even stopped scolding them for it …*_

"You'll soon be leaving us," Vern said without preliminary as I braced myself on the front desk and slipped into my old peacoat.

I nodded. "Yeah, but I'll still be around to harass you. Nobody gets rid of me that easily."

Vern laughed. "Uh huh … we've noticed." He walked beside me and held open the front door for me to move through. "Watch your step," he said. "It's a little windy this morning. At this time of year the wind could blow away skinny guys like you …"

"It wouldn't dare!" I said, and walked outside.

I made my way across the street behind the parked van just in time to see the two men pick up my Mom's little spinet piano and carry it in the front door. "You must be Gregory House," one of them said.

Uh oh … neither of these guys knew about "Kyle Calloway", and I was at a loss to think of a way to handle the situation. "That's me," I said sarcastically. "How did you know?" I was abrupt and brusque and disrespectful and I knew it. I stopped myself, shut up and rolled the dialogue back to the point before I had walked up to them. "Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to snap. I've been having some pain issues lately … don't pay any attention to me. It'll pass."

"That's okay," said the athletic-looking black guy with the beard. "We get it."

"Yeah, really," echoed the smaller, wiry one with curly hair and thick glasses. "We already put your easy chair off to the side. You can do us the favor of just sitting there and letting us know where to put everything. Will that work?" They moved carefully across the room and placed the small piano into a slight niche in the wall. Just right.

I nodded. "Yeah. Thanks. Works for me." I moved past them and made my way carefully through the front door. To my utter astonishment, there sat the beautiful old Eames chair and footstool that had once graced my office at PPTH. I walked over to it and eased into it, hiding my wonder and my consternation at its presence. As I sat back, something poked me sharply in the ass, and I reached behind me to pull the object out of there. My hand came away with a small white card and a straight pin.

On the card was handwritten: "I'm glad you're not dead, you ass! Good luck: EF".

So he'd found the I.D. I left behind, and he'd put two and two together. He just made my day with a capital "D", and I grinned like I had just been handed a bright red lollipop. How the hell did he find out where my storage unit was? I would probably never know.

Immediately I wanted to shout with exaltation, but of course I couldn't. Not here; not now. Instead I leaned back and sank deeper into the chair's contours and reveled in the familiar way the footstool cradled my bum leg and allowed me to relax in ways I'd long forgotten about. My pain faded slowly.

I watched as my well-worn possessions paraded past me piece by piece: the butcher-block table to the kitchen, my queen-size bed and big chest of drawers back to the bedroom nearest the bath; my desk and bookcases along the hallway and in the living room, and the ugly black lounge chair against the wall across from me. My library table and desktop against the wall. Boxes of canned goods, jar goods and cooking utensils onto the butcher block where I could separate them later. The boxes holding my precious books and Dad's vinyl collection were carried back to the spare bedroom.

Like a kid in a candy store, I would feast on my serendipity very soon.

I heard the men in the main bedroom, obviously putting the bed together; hand-banging the rails onto the headboard and footboard, inserting the slats, and finally the slam of the box spring going down, and then the huge mattress … "slap!"

The blond one walked down the hallway to where I sat and paused at the entrance. "As long as all your bedding is back there, it'll only take us a few minutes to make up your bed. Do we have your okay to do it? And do you have a preference which set we use?"

I looked up in surprise. "You wouldn't mind doing that?"

"Hell no," he said with a grin. "Of course we wouldn't mind. You're in no shape to do it yourself, and after that, all that's left in the van is a few more boxes: towels and washcloths, clothes, and some cleaning supplies and odds and ends. We can also stock your kitchen for you, as long as you tell us where to put everything. We have about another two hours before we have to be out of here.

Whaddaya say?"

I gathered my crutches and struggled to stand … and in that same instant he was at my side, steadying me and offering assistance. "My brother lost his leg in a biking accident a couple years ago," he said softly. "I'm used to this. I don't want you to hurt yourself. Okay?"

I nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it." I recovered my balance and followed him back the hallway.

"No problem …" the modern equivalent to 'you're welcome'.

Their names, I finally found out, were Shuie and Winston, and they had been partners in the moving business for about twenty-five years. They told me that they had found out, over time, that their jobs entailed much more than just "moving". They met people from all walks of life, and they liked most of them. Each customer was different, but each customer also had something to teach them. It was an exchange they had come to understand and appreciate.

As it turned out, the two men helped me set up the bedroom, the kitchen and the bathroom. When they were ready to leave a little over two hours later, I dug out my wallet and handed each of them a nice tip, along with my honest-to-god sincere thanks for the help and the conversation.

They battened down the hatches, closed and locked the back of the van, and were on the road just about when they said they would be, and I stood at the curb waving so-long.

I placed the crutches on the sidewalk like a tripod and leaned sideways to look up at the elaborate scaffolding system. I could see a group of men making short work of the scraping and painting. The old place looked great. The new paint was heavy duty outdoor dark brown, and they were doing the window frames in stark white. Same color as it was before, but the transformation from dull and chipped to fresh and clean and brilliant, was great.

It was also a relief to know that the topic of Gregory House vs. Kyle Calloway never came up.

I stood in the living room of my new apartment and looked around. Other than the desk, the Eames chair, and the mostly empty bookcases, the room was pretty bare. For a few moments I regretted having gotten rid of the old leather couch … but what the hell … it wasn't like I couldn't afford a new one!

I walked back to the hotel and left the front door unlocked so the paint crew could take their breaks where it was warm. When I staggered back into the Watson Inn, I was sweaty and achy and beat. My leg hurt like hell, but it wasn't spasming. It was almost like I'd put in an honest day's work. When I was still doing my job back in Princeton, I knew that physical activity often helped keep the nagging pain at bay. I would stomp up and down the halls, just trying to keep the motor running …

I needed something to do, I decided. I needed a place to be, and a job to fulfill me. My leg didn't like inactivity any more than I did. Perhaps I should do something about that. I had another appointment with Ed Thoreau. He wanted me to meet the other two doctors on his team, and suddenly I wanted to meet them too. I wanted to discuss with them every aspect of the loss of a leg, and what life might be like afterward. And I decided to accept part time work at the hospital … if they still wanted me.

I went to bed that night feeling tired to the bone, and my leg felt like someone had beaten on my scar with a stick.

I took my meds and settled in.

I slept well that night, and decided that after a time I might learn to fit in.

311


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

"Call 911"

I STARED UP INTO THE DARKNESS OF THE ROOM SURROUNDING ME AND BLINKED MY EYES TO GET THEM TO REFOCUS.

I HAD NO IDEA HOW LONG I'D BEEN SITTING ON THE BED FOOLING WITH THE LAPTOP. IT MUST BE GETTING LATE. OUTSIDE MY WINDOW, THE WIND HAD SLOWED, BUT THE RAIN HADN'T. RAINDROPS ON THE ROOF STILL SOUNDED LIKE A THOUSAND TAP SHOES DANCING THE GOOSE-BUMPY GRAND FINALE OF "CHORUS LINE".

WHEN I LOOKED AT MY WATCH AND SAW WHAT TIME IT WAS, I JUST ABOUT TOPPLED OFF THE BED. IT WAS 3:45 A.M., AND MY SHOULDERS FELT LIKE THEY'D BEEN NAILED TO THE WALL. UP TO NOW, I HADN'T NOTICED. I SIGHED AND STRAIGHTENED MY BACK SLOWLY. MY HEAD LOLLED BETWEEN MY SHOULDERBLADES AND THE MOVEMENT MADE ME GROAN WITH THE MISERY IT CAUSED.

 _*DAMMIT, I'M GETTING TOO OLD FOR THIS!*_

LOOKING FOR NAMES OF PHYSICIANS WHO PUBLISHED IN MEDICAL JOURNALS COULD TURN INTO A LIFETIME OCCUPATION IF I LET IT, I THOUGHT. SOMETIMES I FOUND MYSELF SEARCHING FOR THE NAME OF DR. GREGORY HOUSE, GETTING HIS NAME TANGLED UP IN MY MIND WITH THE FICTIONAL 'DR. CALLOWAY'. I HAD TO GO BACK AND RECHECK AGAIN AND AGAIN, BECAUSE I KNEW THAT HOUSE HADN'T PUBLISHED UNDER HIS OWN NAME IN YEARS. THE SECOND TIME I CAUGHT MYSELF SCREWING UP, I DECIDED IT WAS HIGH TIME TO GIVE IT A REST … AND GIVE MY BRAIN A REST AS WELL.

THE NEXT PUBLICATION ON MY LIST WAS _THE NEW ENGLAND JOURNAL OF MEDICINE_ … BUT I DECIDED TO LET IT WAIT UNTIL AFTER I GOT SOME SLEEP. TOMORROW WOULD BE SOON ENOUGH TO DIG BACK INTO THIS TIME-CONSUMING QUEST. A COUPLE MORE DAYS COULDN'T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE AT THIS LATE DATE, AND 'KYLE CALLOWAY' MAY HAVE ALREADY GATHERED UP ALL HIS MARBLES AND RIDDEN OFF INTO THE SUNSET.

 _*NO HE WOULDN'T, WILSON … DAMMIT … HE'S MORE PERSISTENT THAN A BEAR AFTER HONEY!*_

MAYBE I WOULD GET BACK ON THE ROAD TODAY IF THE WIND DIDN'T PICK UP AGAIN. MAYBE I'D SEE MORE OF PENNSYLVANIA, AND THEN HEAD INTO NEW YORK STATE TO WANDER AROUND UP THERE.

MY FAMILY HAD DISTANT RELATIVES NEAR SYRACUSE. MAYBE I COULD LOOK THEM UP. NAH … SCRATCH THAT. WHO WANTS TO VISIT RELATIVES THEY DON'T KNOW? WHO WANTS TO VISIT UNFAMILIAR RELATIVES, PERIOD?

I UNDRESSED DOWN TO MY UNDERWEAR, PLUGGED IN THE LAPTOP TO CHARGE IT OVER THE REST OF THE NIGHT, WENT TO THE BATHROOM AND THEN WENT STRAIGHT TO BED … IN THAT ORDER. I HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN HOW COZY AND COMFORTABLE THIS OLD BED WAS …

I'D DECIDE FURTHER, ONCE I SAW WHAT THE MORNING'S WEATHER WOULD BRING …

It was still raining steadily when I resurfaced in the real world about eight a.m. The room was very pleasantly warm, and my back and shoulder muscles certainly felt better than they'd felt when I'd turned in back in the wee hours.

I sat up slowly and looked around. My clothing was strewn on the floor, my jacket tossed across the carryall on the seat of the chair, and my laptop sat drunkenly on the edge of the table by the window. It could easily have fallen on my arse if I'd gotten out of bed and tripped over the cord.

I sighed. The first order of business was to get into a hot shower and wash away the cobwebs of last night's tedious journey into my computer's vast wasteland. At the same time I wondered if I was just chasing old daydreams by steeping myself in this persistent search for a man I was probably better off without.

The last time I had seen Gregory House was going on five years ago when he walked angrily away from me on the sidewalk in front of Cuddy's battered house. Was I wrong in my belief that he was writing articles and hoping I would discover them? Maybe he'd written the one I happened to see just for the hell of it, and I was the furthest thing from his mind. Was I delving too deeply into wishful thinking?

Then it dawned on me that I didn't know; had no idea. Either way, I wouldn't put it past him to still be screwing with me, even after all this time …

 _*Stop it! You know you won't have any rest until you find him … or at least find out what became of him after he disappeared into thin air …*_

I stood in the shower a little longer than I usually did, worrying over all my doubts and misgivings. I had run away like a coward from the uncomfortable situation in Florida. I would not turn my back likewise on a part of my life that had once meant so much to me.

 _*Jesus,_ _ouseHouse,_ _House, I miss you. I need your input. I need you to harass me; call me an idiot. Keep me focused on what's important. I'm worried about you, dammit. I need to know how you are and whether you've been taking care of yourself …*_

There were a lot of cars and SUVs and pickups in front of the restaurant when I finally showed up for breakfast. I nodded at Howard as I came in the door. He nodded back, but seemed distracted. Diners going in and out were talking about something that was happening down in the town of Whispell …

A hardware and grain store had been broken into overnight … guns, ammo, cash and merchandise stolen, lots of damage; a man had been hit hard from behind and was fighting for his life in a hospital. The perpetrator had gotten away clean. The local constabulary was on it, the State Police had been called in … the incident was the topic of every conversation. The small TV in the corner showed an earnest-looking commentator making the most of his chance to expound on the local news …

I listened to the talking head, but did not comment. I didn't know the area or the circumstances and I did not know enough about the incident to ask an intelligent question. Instead, I walked into the restaurant and sat down at my usual booth. There might have been twelve to fifteen people there, and they all seemed to be talking at once, and speculating on the situation in Whispell. I sat still and kept my head down, trying to mind my own business and not get involved in the local goings on. It was not my place to join in or offer an opinion.

Hildy came back to wait on me, and the first thing she asked was whether I had heard what happened. I told her yes, but nothing specific. Then she told me that the injured man had died in the hospital about thirty minutes ago. There had just been a news bulletin …

"I'm sorry," I said. "That makes it murder, doesn't it?"

"Yeah ..."

Her eyes were teary when she walked back toward the kitchen. Had she known the man? I was still very much out of the loop, and decided to avoid comment because I knew too little about it.

She did not linger by the table to talk when she brought my order, but stayed busy waiting on other tables … she and Gram … talking with the locals about the tragedy visited upon their mostly peaceful town.

I ate in silence and kept my head down.

When I finished, I stopped at the front desk and told Howard I was checking out. I paid my bill in full and dropped off the key. He thanked me and said "come again the next time you're passing through Pennsylvania … sorry for the unwanted excitement …"

I nodded, knowing I would be instantly forgotten the moment I walked out the door.

I went back to #8 and began packing my things, checking the bathroom for my shaving supplies and shampoo. I put my dirty clothes into a plastic bag I'd found in the top drawer of the dresser, tidied up what was left in the carryall, laid the laptop on top and zipped it down. I picked up my cell phone from the dresser and saw that it was in dire need of a charge. I would plug it in in the car.

It took me about fifteen minutes to do all this and load everything into the back seat of the VW. I started Vanna and let her run while I went back inside for a last-minute check. I came back out and plugged my cell phone into the jack and shoved it into the ash tray. When I backed out of my parking space to leave, I almost ran into the front end of an old black Ford van that came around the rear corner of the motel, swerved around me, paused at the road and then turned right, splashing water and mud for fifteen or twenty feet in all directions.

My windshield took part of it, but it was still raining, and between the wipers and the rainfall it would soon clear off again. I decided the van's driver was in some kind of a hurry. It pulled out onto the road about fifty yards ahead of me, and I saw its lights come on as it disappeared around a curve down the other side of the mountain.

I turned my own lights on and followed at a discreet distance. The road was wet and shining and slick with wet leaves from the two-day storm, and looked like they were glued to the blacktop. All along the side of the road and into the woods along both sides, broken limbs lay humped and splintered in the gutters that still ran full of rainwater. Some of them jutted out almost onto the road, and at least once I had to veer to the left to avoid grazing one that stuck out a little too far. I assumed road crews would soon be along to clean up the mess, but I doubted if it would be anymore today.

I drove carefully, monitoring the van that was on the road a short distance in front of me. The driver had turned cautious; on and off the brakes frequently. At some spots, the brake lights seemed to be blinking Morse code as the vehicle maneuvered cautiously down the gradual incline.

 _*Not much of a driver, that one …*_

I fell back even further and gave the thing plenty of room.

I was very glad I did.

Another hundred yards or so, the road turned suddenly into a double S-curve; first right and then a sharp left, and repeat. I slowed down by pumping the brakes, unfamiliar with the lay of the land and no idea how many twists and turns were coming up ahead of me. I lost sight of the van and decided that whoever was in it knew the territory a lot better than I did.

I saw the twist of rotating red and white lights coming toward me up the road from the opposite direction. I knew what it was. The bright warning beacon turned the leaves, trees, and everything it touched into a swirl of warning patterns. I could not hear the siren yet, but I knew when I was being approached by a police car that meant business.

Suddenly I was shocked out of my wits by a large dark green SUV … an Envoy … or Four-Runner … its lights on high-beam, roaring up the narrow mountain road almost straight at me. And then I heard the siren of the police car right on its tail. At the last second the huge vehicle spotted me and swerved to his right to hold the road. I swerved the VW to the right also, skidding sideways on wet leaves at the edge of the berm as the behemoth blew past and continued screaming up the mountain.

I had a passing glance of a big man with a baseball cap and a dark beard driving the SUV. Then one more brief glance at the state cop in the big black and white Dodge sedan in hot pursuit. I heard the Doppler effect of the siren rising and falling as it passed me like a bat out of hell and disappeared around a curve further up the road. The red swirl of his warning lights painted the trees in my rear-view mirror just as it had painted the ones lower down as he careened up the mountain from the other direction.

Then they were gone. I was left sitting, shaking like a leaf, by the side of the road, wondering what the hell had just happened. All around me it was deathly silent, except for the hammering rain and the chug of the VW's tight little engine. There was no other traffic visible, and the rain continued to beat down.

After a minute I finally gathered myself and put the car back in gear. Slowly and deliberately I stepped on the gas feed and rolled along the shallow rain ditch, cutting the wheel to the left until all four tires were back on the macadam and regaining traction. I drove slowly on the winding road, knowing it was wet and hellishly slippery. More than once I found myself holding my breath … like I was seated in a horror movie and the _creature_ was _gaining …_

 _*Why the hell didn't I stay put at the motel for one more day?! Dumbass!*_

I went around a bend in the road and saw tail lights shining in a direction where they should not be shining. Just up ahead the road came out of the wooded area and emerged into a clearing with an embankment falling off on the right. The drop-off was lined about five yards down with a thick stand of slender pines, hemlocks and young chestnut trees … the kind that bend with you when you grab them to keep from sliding headlong down a steep hill.

 _*Ahhh … damn …*_

The black van was part way over the edge, hung up on its undercarriage; its blunt front compartment nosed downward, breaking through a couple rows of the young trees. Its rear end was up in the air on the driver's side and perched precariously, resting on its transmission. If the trees hadn't been there, the van would have rolled another fifteen feet to a flatland wheat field below and landed onto its side … and maybe kept on rolling all the way down to a creek that ran through the meadow.

Slowly I pulled up close behind it, shifted to "park" and turned on the four-way flashers. I got out, zipped my jacket, ran up to the driver's door as close as I could get. I knocked on the metal briefly, not knowing how precarious its position might be. "Are you all right in there?"

I heard a frightened female voice: "Oh thank God! I'm okay, but I'm afraid to move. My foot is caught under the gas pedal."

"Hildy?"

"Yes. Who?"

"It's James … from the motel …"

"The 'James' with the Volkswagen?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for stopping. Can you help me? Somebody in an SUV forced me off the road. A police car was chasing it, but I don't think they saw me skid on the leaves. I lost control and almost went over the edge. I'm getting scared now …"

"Don't move around and get the thing rocking," I said. "Let me come down and see how bad you're hung up … and if it's safe for me to crawl in there and try to help you get out. Do you have a cell phone? It might be a good idea to call 911 in case I can't get you out, for fear of shaking the thing loose and sending you on a pretty bad trip …"

"My cell phone is in my purse, and it fell off the seat. It's way on the other side … on the floor where I can't reach it. Sorry."

"Not your fault. I'm going back to my car and get my phone … hang on. In the meantime, see if you can slide out of your shoe … oh … and make sure the ignition is turned off, okay?"

Her voice was thin and shaky. "Okay …"

I ran back to Vanna and grabbed my phone off the charger and out of the ashtray. I had already punched 911 by the time I had walked back to the van. I was soaking wet all the way to my knees and my hair was hanging in my face like wet clothes on a clothesline. Couldn't be helped.

" _This in 911 … what is the nature of your emergency?"_

I was surprised that I was getting such clear reception. "My name is Dr. James Wilson. I'm somewhere on the mountain road about two miles north of the 'Wander Inn Motel'. There's a young woman in a black van that got forced off the road, skidded on wet leaves and is hung up on an embankment. She says she's not hurt, but I told her not to move in case the van breaks through the underbrush and rolls on down ..."

The woman on the line asked if I was hurt and if I was in a separate vehicle. I said "no" and "yes" in that order, and I would stand by until someone could get up here to pull the van back onto the road. I told her I was driving a '67 Volkswagen bug and had no chains.

"I'll send someone to you as soon as I can get it there, Dr. Wilson. You're about five miles or so from here. You can expect it to arrive within half-to-an hour."

I thanked her and hung up, thinking that the facilities in the town of Whispell were getting a bit of a workout today. I hollered to Hildy in the van to see how she was doing.

"I'm okay, James, but I'm getting cold. I turned off the key, and I pulled my foot out of my shoe. I'm just sitting here on the seat, kind of wedged in between the steering wheel and the seat and the engine. The trees are against my door, and I can't get out …"

"You didn't take your seat belt off did you?" I asked.

There was silence for a moment. "Uh … yeah. I did. Should I put it back on?"

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "Yeah. You should."

"Okay." There was another pause. "James? It's stuck under the edge of the seat and I can't get it loose. Now what?"

"Can't you jiggle it loose?"

I could hear her grunts of effort. "No. It's caught on something. Should I …?"

"No. Let it go. Just sit still."

"Okay … James?"

"Yes?"

"Can I use your cell phone? I need to call Gram and Gramps and tell them what happened. I was going for potatoes and eggs … we ran out because there's so many people there … they'll be worried when I don't come back."

"Sure, but I don't know how to get it to you. Let me see if I can climb over some of this underbrush and get to the driver's side window. Can you roll it down without moving around a lot?"

"I think so. Don't get hurt …"

"I won't."

As I made my way cautiously along the van's undamaged side, it was obvious that getting the cell phone to her would be next to impossible. The vehicle was nosed down and to the right and wedged tightly among a stand of slender young trees that were already bent under its weight. Any kind of excess movement could dislodge it. The front wheels were both turned to the right as far as they would go, and I could see that it wouldn't take much to break through the trees and send it plunging down the embankment into the field.

There was no way for me to get close enough to hand her the phone, and no way to open the heavy rear door almost straight upward. I was too far back and too close to the fulcrum point to extend my hand close enough to reach in through the driver's window, which I saw she had rolled down. The top of her head appeared through the opening, but I could not take the chance of trying to get closer.

I backed off and stood still a moment. "Hildy, give me the number of the motel and let me make the call for you. I'll tell them we called 911 and they're sending a wrecker. Okay?"

Her voice was tearful now. Cold and wet and scared. In a stuttering voice she gave me the phone number and I dialed it nervously. I had to think of a way to inform two older people what had happened to their granddaughter without scaring hell out of them, and yet let them know she was okay … just trapped in an ancient van with nearly bald tires and probably a broken axle … hanging over a cliff …

 _*Goddamn it, Wilson, get it together!*_

It was Howard who answered the phone. I identified myself and told him briefly what had happened. I let him know Hildy was all right, just cold and scared and trapped like a kitten up a tree.

Howard asked me a bunch of questions, which I answered as calmly and as truthfully as I could. I heard him palm the phone and say something to other people who seemed to still be hanging around there. I explained that I couldn't get the phone to Hildy, and her phone was lost on the downward slope of the van. I told him finally that I had called 911 and help was on the way.

His answer to that was: "It sure-as-hell is, James. Thank you very much for calling us." My phone went dead in my hand. I frowned, wondering what in the world he was talking about. I shoved the phone into my pocket and walked as close as I could get to where I could talk to Hildy again.

She calmed down when I told her I had talked to her grandfather and told him help was on the way. "I appreciate everything you've done, James. Really. I guess it was a dumb idea to go out in this weather just for eggs and potatoes. We could have substituted other stuff instead. Live and learn, I guess. But at least I didn't slide into another car or hurt anyone …"

"You doing okay in there?" I asked.

"Yeah … just cold. What about you? Aren't you soaked?"

I looked down at myself. The adrenalin rush I'd felt awhile ago was gone now. The rain had penetrated my jacket and ran down the front of my shirt, and I knew I must be soaked to the skin. I felt a bout of shivering run down my body from head to toes. Power of suggestion. My jeans and socks were also saturated, and I was beginning to feel like a walking iceberg. My hair was a waterfall dripping down my face, into my ears and off my chin. It might have been funny if it weren't so damn miserable. I laughed a little; glad she couldn't see me standing there in the rain like a frozen scarecrow.

"I'm a little damp," I said. And we both laughed shakily.

We waited for the posse to rescue us …

Suddenly I heard the cracking of wood, and whirled around to face the unsteady front of the van. One of the saplings on the downslope had given way under the weight and split in half. The vehicle rocked precariously and tipped a little further into the tilt. I heard two more of the small trees begin to crack and give up the ghost as the front end tipped further. Only the transmission on the edge of higher ground kept the thing from going over.

I heard Hildy scream, and I ran in as close as I could get to the front door of the van. "Hildy, hang on! Don't panic! Hang on! I'm going to stand on the back bumper and maybe I can balance it until the truck comes! Hang-the-hell on!"

I knew my voice sounded hysterical as hers. It was the only thing I could think of, although anything I might do would probably be useless. I ran back to the back of the van and jumped up on the bumper as another tree began to crack.

I held onto the rear door handle and leaned back as the van very slowly began to rock, and then nosed forward in slow motion. The ground beneath the transmission began to give way and I felt myself rising into the air.

Hildy screamed again …

Then all hell broke loose. There were two pickup trucks and a car, all of which skidded to a stop ahead, behind and around the VW. Everything smooshed to a halt behind the van, and about eight husky men piled out of these vehicles, clad in yellow raincoats and high black boots. They carried large-link tow chains and heavy duty ranch and lumbering equipment.

Shouting orders back and forth to each other, they approached the back of the precariously listing van. Two men about the size of King Kong hefted themselves onto the back bumper beside me, grabbed the door handles and hung on, thrusting their butts out and away from their bodies. The van's forward momentum came to a squealing, rasping stop.

Somebody yelled: **"SON OF A BITCH!"**

Three or four other men scrambled around on the wet ground as they hooked chains and "S" hooks around the back axle, and then signaled to the pickup drivers to move into a position that tightened their tow chains to the limit.

Howard walked past me and shouted to his granddaughter that the trucks would pull the van away from the embankment, and when it was on solid ground, she should get ready to jump out of it.

She yelled in a high-pitched frightened voice: "Okay Gramps … I'm scared …"

I bet she was!

Howard walked over close to me as the chains tightened, and I leaped off the bumper, landing like a bale of wet straw at his feet. We stood together while the trucks very gradually hauled the Ford off the edge of the embankment and pulled it back, worse for wear but still in one piece, parallel with the road. Hildy scrambled out the driver's door, still with only one shoe on, and ran up to her grandfather and threw her arms around him. Two men from the gang that arrived to help, brought blankets; one for her and one for me. Never had an old Army blanket looked so good.

They herded us into one of the trucks, a hellishly huge Ford diesel with a crew cab, its heater running on 'high'. One of the men asked me for my car keys so he could drive the VW back to the motel.

On the way back, Howard called "Nellie" at Whispell 911 and cancelled the call for the wrecker. During the conversation, he found out that the cop in the police car, who had thundered up the road in pursuit of the guy in the SUV, had captured his man. The stolen SUV ran out of gas near the county line, and the cop arrested him without a fight. A sack of money was recovered from the back seat, along with the rest of the stolen merchandise. The suspect was Mirandized and charged with murder.

A cheer went up from those of us in the truck ...

That night there was a celebration in the restaurant of the "Wander Inn", which many from the town of Whispell attended. I was treated like a hero, even though I wasn't one. Gram hustled up baked pork chops and fried chicken, stuffing, corn bread (made with Egg Beaters,) candied carrots … and a couple gallons of thick egg noodles … on the house. Who needed potatoes and eggs when the ambience was right? Right?

I shook more hands that night than I had in about the last ten years. I got hugs from the ladies and grins from the men. Actually, it was kind of nice.

All I'd done was stand around in the rain talking macho bravado to a scared girl trapped in a van that listed halfway over a cliff.

I went back to Unit #8 that night. Clean room. Hot water. Thick Turkish towels, fragrant flannel sheets and no charge.

When I finally pulled out to be on my way the next morning, I was bid farewell by about a dozen people who invited me back _anytime._

The sun was shining. The road was dry …

My clothing and jacket were dry too, from a toss in their dryer.

And I knew (with certainty) that I'd never be back …

321


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

"Warming the House"

I'M SITTING IN MY LITTERED LIVING ROOM IN THE "SYLVESTER HOUSE".

IT'S BEEN A FEW DAYS SINCE MY FURNITURE WAS DELIVERED, AND THE PAINTING CREW ARRIVED, BUT I'M STILL IN RESIDENCE AT THE WATSON INN. THERE'S NOT ENOUGH STUFF PUT AWAY OVER HERE YET TO LET ME FEEL SAFE OR COMFORTABLE LIVING ON MY OWN. THE BEDROOM IS SET UP THE WAY I WANT IT, BUT THAT'S ALL. AND THAT'S ONLY BECAUSE THE GUYS IN THE DELIVERY VAN SET IT UP FOR ME. THE BED IS MADE, AND I GOT SOME OF MY CLOTHING STASHED AWAY IN THE CLOSET AND DRESSERS. MY CRUTCHES ARE LEANING AGAINST THE WALL BESIDE THE BED, BECAUSE I'VE BEEN USING THE WHEELCHAIR TO MANEUVER THROUGH THE ROOMS WHILE I DECIDE HOW I WANT TO ARRANGE EVERYTHING THEY DIDN'T HAVE TIME FOR.

WHEN THE PAINTERS FINISHED WITH THE OUTSIDE OF THE BUILDING, THEY TOLD ME THEY WOULD COME INSIDE TO DO MY LIVING ROOM, BEDROOM, HALLWAY AND KITCHEN. ALL I HAD TO DO WAS LET THEM KNOW WHAT COLORS I PREFERRED. COOL! I CHOSE SAGE GREEN FOR THE LIVING ROOM (BETTER THAN THE BABY-VOMIT SHADE THAT WAS IN IT WHEN I FIRST GOT HERE.) YELLOW FOR THE KITCHEN; SOMETHING UP BEAT. AND FOR MY BEDROOM, I CHOSE LIGHT GREY WITH WHITE TRIM … RESTFUL AND SOOTHING. WHEN MY LEG GOT LOPPED OFF, I WOULD NEED SOMETHING CALMING. I ASKED THAT THEY PAINT ALL THE INTERIOR WOODWORK BRIGHT WHITE ENAMEL, JUST LIKE THE WINDOW CASINGS OUTSIDE. I'D SEEN THE WORK THEY DID OUT THERE, AND IT LOOKS GREAT.

WHEN THEY FINISHED MY APARTMENT, I WOULD HIRE THEM AGAIN AND ASK THE OTHER TENANTS IF THEY WOULD LIKE THEIR PLACES PAINTED AS WELL. (I WOULD TELL THEM I WAS ASKING ON BEHALF OF MISTER PERRY FROM THE BANK ...)

I SIT IN THE WHEELCHAIR WITH A NOTEBOOK FULL OF LISTS IN MY LAP. IF I WANT TO REMEMBER WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE AROUND THIS PLACE, I MAKE SURE TO WRITE IT DOWN. OTHERWISE I FORGET STUFF TEN MINUTES AFTER I THINK OF IT. ADVANCING AGE IS A PAIN IN THE ASS. WHEN I USE THE CRUTCHES, I CAN'T CARRY STUFF AROUND WITH ME, AND THE LISTS GET MISPLACED. WITH THE WHEELCHAIR I CAN PUT STUFF IN MY LAP AND KEEP TRACK OF IT. WORKS FOR ME. MAYBE WHEN I HAVE ONE OF THE TEAM'S HI-TECH PROSTHESES AND LEARN TO USE IT, I WILL BE ABLE TO WALK ALMOST LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING AND CARRY STUFF IN BOTH HANDS. I SURE HOPE SO.

I'm slowly becoming used to the layout of this place, and I want it to be exactly right for my unique circumstances: easy to maneuver through. No crutch tips or wheelchair wheels catching on doorframes or anything else to toss me on my ass or into the wall. I need it to be super-convenient, whether I'm using crutches or wheelchair. I can't limp around in my bare feet, minus the cane, like I used to do on Baker Street. Those days are long gone.

I'm still without a couch and haven't taken time to visit someplace where they sell them. I wish sometimes that I hadn't got rid of the old leather monstrosity I had before, but it was really shot. I remember the time I dunked Wilson's hand into a pot of lukewarm water and stood back to watch the leakage. Nope, it had been high time for the old junker to bite the dust.

I miss flopping down with a bag of Bar-B-Q chips and a beer, with the remote in my hand … channel surfing as a distraction. I'm a creature of habit, and when I'm not in rhythm with familiar surroundings; all the missing details throw things out of perspective. I've been without that too long, and I need to get it back.

Which brings me to the point that I don't have a TV either. Can't let that one go much longer, 'cause me without a TV is like a frog with no hopper. I always used my TV as a focus point when I'm trying to take my mind off my damn leg.

So here I sit, on the Eames chair, in the living room near the spot where I want the couch to be. I'm between chores now, and getting hungry. It's past noon and my leg hurts as it usually does when the machinery in my head is running on 'idle'. I look around me, thinking about the exact spot where I'll place the couch, once I find one that suits.

The black woven-leather lounge is beside the window, flanked by a floor lamp. I'm not sure if it will work in here at all. I can see myself tripping over the lamp, and the ugly damn chair sticks out into the room too far and doesn't look right anyplace else. I don't know what the hell I was thinking when I kept it. I'm also thinking that a recliner would work a lot better … one of the electric ones … push the button and down she goes. Push it again, and you ride it back to the top. The couch will be across from the front door; same spot as the one in Princeton. Might as well stay with what works. Maybe I'll find an electric one of those too ... might as well invest in the good stuff. I'm going to put the Eames chair in my bedroom eventually. It's kind of an odd design and of an age that reminds me of the era when I was born. My big bed won't mind sharing space with that chair.

I can't do any cooking until I get the pots and pans and dishes and silverware and other shit unpacked, and take a trip to the grocery store. The moving guys put away all the jars and bottles and canned stuff, but I still haven't found the coffee pot. Or the can opener. Or the toaster. I don't know if I even have any coffee. Right now the kitchen is stacked with boxes from Baker Street, and I can't even get in there because the damn butcher block table is in the way and the wheelchair won't fit through. Putting stuff where it belongs out there is going to be a three-ring circus. I'd break my fucking neck if I tried moving it on crutches …

I switched from wheelchair to crutches to walk across the street. I locked my door and turned off the lights. I wasn't sure if I had the stamina to get anymore scut-work done today. Probably not.

Vern saw me coming from his perch behind the front desk, and when I heaved across the veranda, he held the door open for me. I swung into the lobby and thanked him for the assist. Two seconds later, Lily approached from the kitchen and walked up beside me, accompanying me to my usual booth. I stole a glance over to Vern and rolled my eyes. He grinned and shrugged, and I followed Lily … no use trying to fight the advance of the little army of one …

She had dug an old milking stool out of the back room when I first arrived here; cleaned it and shined it up until it looked almost new. She found a small round pillow at a flea market somewhere, and made a cover for it that she Velcroed fast to the wooden seat. I now had a place to prop up my leg when I ate meals in the restaurant. When she gave it to me with a smile and a wink, I had been appropriately self conscious. When I thanked her and planted a smooch on the top of her head, I knew my face was burning with embarrassment … which in turn made her giggle. I've used that stool ever since, though, and I do have to admit, it helps keep my foot from hanging down and thumping with pain.

It has become kind of a tradition that when I stop by Lily's restaurant for lunch, she chooses from the menu for me. Once I learned that she always got things just right, I let the ritual go on and did not protest. Today she brought me clam chowder and a hot meatloaf sandwich with horseradish sauce, and a side of chunky cinnamon applesauce. The coffee, as usual, was hot and delicious, and I scarfed it up as soon as it was cooled enough that it didn't burn holes in my esophagus.

When I finished, I refused dessert, because I was 'full to slopping over'. (Lily's definition ...)

I went back to my room and sprawled on the bed. I ignored all the other pills in my cache and quickly swallowed a Vicodin dry. Like the old days. I slipped a pillow beneath my knee and waited for sleep to claim me.

I have an appointment with Ed Thoreau Monday morning, and I'm supposed to meet the other two members of his surgical team. I know what that means. I'm going to be evaluated exhaustively for the final fate of my leg.

I'm scared out of my mind and not looking forward to hearing the final diagnosis. Staying on the move and keeping active helps keep my mind off it. At least sometimes. Admitting that I'm scared is not a thing I would ever say out loud to another human being. Not even Wilson. Not Thoreau; not anybody. If I say I'm scared out loud, it will make it true, and I'm not ready.

As a doctor, I'm not much use anymore. I know that. But my pain keeps me centered in reality. As long as I have two legs, I remain a whole man. Stupid way to think, I know. To be defined only by my disability is an indication there is something really wrong inside my head. But what is … _is._

There's only one thing I know of that might open up other avenues. But I threw that one away when I needed it most. He hasn't shown up yet. I have to admit to the possibility that he never will …

I lay here wandering through all the crap that churns around inside my mind; deducing and denying, speculating and self-diagnosing and contemplating. Sleep finally crept up and carried me away. The room is warm; the bed, comfortable.

It was early evening when I finally woke up and took notice of my surroundings again.

I went into the bathroom and sat in a tub of very hot water. Then I used the overhead bar to pull myself up. I toweled off and stood at the sink naked. I shaved and clipped and trimmed until I was satisfied with the small Van Dyke that shaded the lower part of my face. I fashioned a thin mustache with the new beard trimmer.

When it was finished, I turned left and right, surveying the finished product. It would do. Nothing to write home about. It showed all the shadowy lines on my face that ended in sharp angles, attesting to the huge amount of weight I had lost since my leg went south. My hair was grayer. Kind of shaggy … covering the tips of my ears. If I were a Vulcan or a Romulan, nobody would know.

 _*C'est la vie ...*_

I crutched back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. My leg still ached from hip to toes, and I reached for the meds again.

I got dressed in soft clothing. Gray sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, gray socks and my sneaker on the left foot. I maneuvered to 'my' booth in the restaurant and slid into it. Lily's shift was over and she had gone home. Jake was in charge of the kitchen and it wasn't long before he strode out the doorway and arrived beside my table. In his hand was the milking stool with its cushion. He knelt beside me and gently lifted my foot onto it. He hung my crutches on the hook Lily had had installed on the outside of my booth and sat down across from me.

"What'll it be, Kyle? There's ham loaf, pork and sauerkraut, or sirloin tips on the menu tonight. What can I get you besides your usual coffee?"

"Sirloin tips sounds great, Jake. Medium rare. Surprise me with the sides. I'm not picky."

He nodded. "Comin' right up. How's it going with the apartment? Do you need any help?"

I looked at him and knew right away that what he wanted to know was 'how is the crippled guy going to be able to get all the grunt work done in a new apartment?'

"It's slow," I answered truthfully. "But if I do it a little at a time and don't try to rush it, it'll get there sooner or later. Most of it is emptying boxes and putting stuff away. Thanks for asking."

"Okay," he said. "Just wondered. If you need help, holler."

"I'll do that. Thank you."

He nodded. "Your dinner will be out directly …" He got up and hurried back toward the kitchen.

I sat at the table and stared out the window. Street lights were on and for the most part the little town was empty of traffic. Residents were heading home from whatever adventures had engaged them earlier this evening.

Nights were colder now, and I was becoming aware that I would soon find out what it was like to winter in New England. Also, I was going to be the person responsible for the comfort and well-being of my tenants … how weird to call people I had never met: "my tenants". Would I need to go to them one at a time and knock on their doors … introduce myself? Probably not. I'd told Bill Perry to let them continue to pay their rents to the bank. I would just be another tenant, Bill had said, unless at some point I decided otherwise. It would require further thought.

I had never done anything so completely out of my milieu as this before. How many doctors are also landlords? Some, I supposed. I was allowing second thoughts to cloud my vision of buying the Sylvester House and renovating it and maybe making a difference in the neighborhood.

 _*C'mon House … don't be getting cold feet now. You wanted to be a better person, so BE one!"_

One of the teeny bopper waitresses who worked evenings and weekends arrived with my dinner, and I interrupted my woolgathering to smile at her. Her name tag said "Jennifer", and she took great pains to arrange my plates, silver, water glass and coffee mug just right. "How are you doing tonight, Mr. Calloway?"

I was tempted to growl, "I'm fine". But I didn't. Instead I said: "I'm good. How are you?"

"Been a long day; otherwise okay. Enjoy your dinner. I'll check back with you later."

I nodded and picked up my silverware. She smiled and left. Later, I saw her talking to Jake, and twice they glanced in my direction. I pretended not to notice, but couldn't help wondering ... * _What-the-hell now?*_

The sirloin tips were melt-in-your-mouth delicious; smothered in gravy and mushrooms and onions, and a pile of mashed potatoes. There was broccoli, chewy but tender, and dinner rolls, warm and soft and yummy. And cole slaw, one of my favorites.

When I finished, I paid Jake with a couple of twenties and left a ten beneath my plate for Jennifer. Jake removed the stool after lifting my foot off it, and Jennifer handed me my crutches. I bid them a good night and went back to my room. The bed was freshly made; there was a laundry basket with my clean clothes, and the dirty stuff I'd left strewn on the floor and furniture, was all gone.

There was a glass of brandy on the table by the window. I smiled and shook my head. Vern's orders, no doubt.

Somehow I seemed to be attracting friends around here without knowing how I'd done it. Did they just feel sorry for the cripple? Or had I actually been doing something right? I honest-to-god didn't know and couldn't seem to figure it out … but it felt damn nice.

I went to bed in the sweat suit and laid there staring at the ceiling awhile, wondering where in hell my life might possibly be heading in this magical place. Had I made a wise choice, or was I just kidding myself by walking along a path of mystery among strangers? Nothing came to mind, but at least the ghosts that haunted me at first, were no longer there.

At times like this, in the painful moments of doubt, I always think of Wilson and wish he was here to talk to … bounce my doubts and ideas and questions off his agile, caring mind. But he wasn't … and I really needed to get my head around that.

My leg began to hurt. I took another pill and tried to settle down.

I was up at 8:00 a.m. I sat on the edge of the bed rubbing my damn leg for ten minutes before I dared get up and attempt to walk. I hit the head then; washed my hands and brushed my teeth. I came back and carefully changed into jeans.

When I put on my jacket and walked out front, Lily was waiting. I told her I didn't want breakfast because I'd made a pig of myself last night, and it was all Jake's fault.

She looked at me a little funny, but didn't comment at first. When I waved to Vern and headed toward the front door, she held it open for me, and asked very softly: "Kyle … does your leg hurt you?"

 _*Yes, Lily dear, it always hurts.*_

"It's fine, Lily. Thank you. I'll be over at the apartment putting some things away."

She nodded and retreated. "Be careful, Kyle …"

I was sitting in the wheelchair, in the doorway between kitchen and living room, wracking my brain trying to figure a way to move the damn butcher-block table out of the way so I could maneuver enough to finish stocking the kitchen. The damned thing must weigh two-hundred pounds, and there was no way I could swing it around to position it in the middle of the floor where it would be useful rather than a pain in the ass. I also needed the ugly back lounge chair to disappear somewhere. It didn't fit in, and the bottom of it stuck out into the area where I needed to maneuver the crutches and wheelchair. It was a safety hazard where it was.

I had pretty much of the stuff in boxes put away and placed on shelves and in drawers. But I needed to do the kitchen, dammit. I wanted to find my coffee pot and brew some coffee … if I could find some coffee.

I stared at the impenetrable barrier, feeling frustrated and pissed off.

 _*Why didn't somebody move the damn table out of the way of the door? The delivery guys were in here, and a crew of painters, and nobody shoved the freaking table out of the way. They just didn't think about it, I guess. All they had to do was pull their bellies in and slide through the opening. No thought that somebody in a wheelchair or on crutches couldn't do that …*_

I said "SHIT!" out loud.

Then somebody hammered loudly at the front door.

"Just a minute!" I whirled the chair around angrily and went to answer it.

Bill Perry stood there in sweatshirt and jeans. Jake and Jerry crowded close behind him, and Jake was carrying a shop vac. Lily, in yellow pants and sweater, had buckets and sponges. A man whose name I didn't even know had a broom and a mop. Ed Thoreau's dad and his wife Nora were smiling at me over a carton of shelf paper. Two of the teeny bopper part-time waitresses from the restaurant were there in jeans and sweatshirts, and Vern stood in the middle of them all, looking stuffy and smug.

I rolled backwards, my jaw dropping to my chest.

"Welcome to the neighborhood, stranger," Art Thoreau said with a huge grin on his face. "We understand you could use some help getting this place in order …"

All my doubts disappeared. I smiled, shook my head and invited them in.

I'd come home.

328


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

"New York"

SOME PARTS OF UPSTATE NEW YORK ARE STUNNING TO THE EYE. AUTUMN HAS TAKEN OVER EVERYWHERE, AND LEAVES ARE A TAPESTRY OF GREEN AND GOLD AND ORANGE AND MAROON AND RED, AND MY EYES FEAST ON THE FIELDS AND HILLSIDES UNTIL MY BRAIN IS RUNNING OVER WITH THE ARTISTRY OF MOTHER NATURE.

DIDN'T MEAN TO RATTLE ON LIKE THAT, BUT DAMN! IT SURE IS PRETTY.

BACK IN PENNSYLVANIA I WAS MORE THAN HAPPY TO MOVE ON FROM THE SPECTACLE OF THE BAD GUY WHO KILLED THE STORE OWNER, AND THE STATE COP THAT CHASED HIM DOWN ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN … AND THE ROOKIE DRIVER WHO ALMOST RODE HER VAN OVER AN EMBANKMENT INTO THE FIELD BELOW … AND ME WITH IT … AND DIDN'T EVEN GET A TRAFFIC TICKET. AND THE RAINSTORM THAT TRIED TO DROWN THE WORLD AT THE SAME TIME THIS STRANGE DRAMA WAS UNFOLDING? WHAT CAN I SAY?

 _*OY VEY!"_

I RODE BACK WITH THE OTHERS TO THE "WANDER-IN"' IN THE CAB OF THAT MONSTER OF A PICKUP TRUCK; TIRED, DRENCHED, SNEEZING AND ACHY. I STUCK AROUND WHILE HILDY TOLD HER STORY TO A CROWD OF FRIENDS AND A COUPLE OF LOCAL REPORTERS WHO HAD WAITED AT THE MOTEL FOR THE HARDY GROUP THAT DRAGGED THE OLD VAN OFF THE CUSP OF DISASTER …

AS SOON AS I COULD SNEAK AWAY, LOCK MYSELF IN UNIT #8, SHOWER AND CHANGE CLOTHES, GET TO VANNA AND GET OUT OF DODGE, I DID. HILDY WASN'T HURT; ONLY SCARED OUT OF HER WITS. I MADE SURE SHE WAS OCCUPIED BEFORE MAKING MY ESCAPE, CERTAIN I WOULD NOT BE MISSED.

("SNEAKERS" … SNEAKING AWAY AGAIN …)

I MERGED ONTO ROUTE 81 JUST ABOVE A PLACE CALLED CLARKS SUMMIT AND ENTERED NEW YORK STATE CLOSE TO BINGHAMTON. I STAYED AWAY FROM MOM-AND-POP MOTELS. WHEN I HOLED UP OVERNIGHT AGAIN, I DECIDED IT WOULD BE A MARRIOT OR A MOTEL 6 OR A COMFORT INN. I'D HAD ENOUGH OF LOCAL MISADVENTURES TO LAST ME A LIFETIME.

I SPENT SOME TIME WANDERING AROUND LOOKING AT THE SCENERY, BUT PRESENTLY I WAS ON MY WAY AGAIN. THAT NIGHT I CHOSE AN ISOLATED HOLIDAY INN TO RELAX FOR AWHILE. IT WAS NEAR THE CITY OF WATERTOWN, NOT FAR FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE CROSSING INTO ONTARIO.

I PARKED IN THE LOT, PAID FOR A ONE-NIGHT STAY, GRABBED MY CARRYALL FROM THE CAR AND WENT INSIDE TO SHOWER AGAIN BEFORE SUPPER. I WAS MORE THAN READY FOR SOME DOWN TIME. I WAS SNEEZING AND CONGESTED AND I NEEDED TO FIND A COMMERCIAL LAUNDRY AND CATCH UP WITH MY EXPANDING ACCUMULATION OF DIRTY CLOTHES. THE VW WAS BEGINNING TO SMELL LIKE AN NFL LOCKER ROOM, AND THAT'S NOT GOOD FOR ONE'S OLFACTORY SYSTEM.

I ALSO WANTED TO GET BACK TO MY LAPTOP AND LOOK UP A FEW MORE MEDICAL JOURNALS WHILE I WAS AT IT. COULDN'T GIVE UP NOW: PROCESS OF ELIMINATION.

I ATE A LIGHT MEAL AND PUT MY WEARY SELF TO BED BY NINE P.M.

I MUST BE GETTING OLD … OLD-ER!

The following day there was a damn bank robbery right there in Watertown! Can you believe?

My room was on the second floor front, and I was just coming out of the bathroom. I passed in front of the windows (with the blinds drawn, of course,) and stood beside the bed, pulling on fresh underwear for the day.

The TV was on, tuned to the local news when a special bulletin broke into regular programing. A small branch bank downtown had been robbed at gunpoint, and the thieves escaped with an undisclosed sum of money. Eyewitnesses had given a description of the two armed men (in Hallowe'en masks,) who had roared off in a stolen 2014 White Ford Fusion with Pennsylvania license plates.

(Must be a thousand of those things running around, I thought, rolling my eyes at the ceiling.)

Police had spotted the car, the newsman said, and were moving in a tightening circle to cut them off near the downtown … blah, blah, blah …

No sooner had I stopped listening and changed to one of the sports channels, than I heard screeching tires and sirens heading pretty damn close to this particular hotel. And this particular hotel certainly is not "downtown". I sighed. It seemed that chain hotels were just as vulnerable as rickety little holes-in-the-wall in the sticks. I sighed. Sat down on the bed and began to pull my socks on. I'm glad I didn't stick my nose through the blinds to look around outside …

I jumped a foot off the bed when a spray of gunfire raked across the top of the front windows, shattering the glass, pinging off the lowered blinds and lodging deadly steel-head bullets into the wall. The TV short-circuited and blew up in a shower of sparks that sent up a cloud of strong sulfurous smoke.

Before I knew it, I found myself cowering on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Evidently I had vaulted over there like a panicked jack rabbit and crouched under the edge of the mattress; both hands crossed on top of my head while tiny shattered glass fragments fell from the broken windows onto the metal window sill like marbles in a bathtub …

 _*God? Why me?*_

If I hadn't closed the blinds on the windows before going in there to shave, there was a good chance I wouldn't be cowering on the floor, half-naked. I would be spread out on a cold gray slab somewhere … and even my _socks_ would be off!

First of all: I have no idea what became of the robbers or the cops or the city of Watertown or the Holiday Inn. Or who the hell it was that took an Uzi to the front of the damned hotel.

Second: It took me two minutes to finish dressing, pack my carryall and my soiled clothing, grab the key card and run down the hallway like a bat out of hell and barrel into the elevator.

Third: I didn't know I could move that fast.

Fourth: I didn't report the broken window. Or the holes in the wall. Or the smoking TV.

 _*Your hotel … you find the bullet holes!*_

Fifth: I slammed the key card on the desk, along with a hundred dollar bill, and got the **FRICK OUT!**

Sixth: I jumped into the VW, hit the ignition, gassed it, took the road out of town and kept on truckin' …

Much later, I ended up in Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks. Far far away from everything that moved. I pulled into the parking lot of the Whiteface Mountain Inn. It wasn't a Holiday Inn, but it was **BIG!**

I looked around. Cold. Beautiful. Rustic. Quiet. Serene. Sheltered by mountains. I shut off the engine and just sat still for a few minutes before going inside. I hoped no one would attack me with tomahawks or bows and arrows. I was totally hammered with road fatigue and up to **here** with insane incidents not of my making. I loved the isolated feel of the place. I should stay put for awhile and clear my head and get over this cold.

I parked, grabbed the carryall, my phone and my glasses; got out, went inside and wobbled up to the registration desk. My shoulders were killing me.

So far, so good. No gunfire, no screeching tires … no cop cars in hot pursuit … no nothing. The man behind the counter looked at me in peculiar fashion as I signed in and paid for a couple nights' lodging. I looked down at myself to make certain I was fully dressed.

Across the room, a huge fireplace sent welcome heat outward to warm my bones. Large logs, sawed and quartered, popped like gunshots. I jumped like a gelded colt …

I woke up Saturday morning and looked out the window of my first story room. All I saw was a 747 or something similar high in the sky. Graceful; sun glinting off the fuselage way above the mountains and heading south, full of travelers with sound minds and stout hearts.

When I checked in last night about midnight, I was dirty and road weary and inattentive. I remember mumbling answers to questions asked by the night man, and fumbling around with my ID and credit cards. "Mumbling and Fumbling": that was me. I slightly remember being handed a key-card thingy and being told to go down the hallway 'til I arrived at Room: "1-1-1 … it'll be on the left," he said.

Which I did, I guess, 'cause me and the carryall made a sloppy about-face and shambled away down a long hallway. I kept going until I finally found the door that had a "1-1-1" on it. I had to swipe the card twice, but then the door clicked open. I went in and there I was. And here I am.

I heard soft voices and quiet footsteps moving in the hallway outside my door, and I discovered that there are other visitors here besides me. I'd been pretty much disinterested last night.

I remember tossing everything on the floor when I staggered into the room. I also remember stumbling into the bathroom, dropping stuff as I went; leaving a trail like Hansel and Gretel. I stood like a zombie under the shower a long time, letting the travel dirt and the road fatigue and the nervous recollection of gunfire rinse off me and down the drain. I was almost asleep on my feet. What I don't remember is anything after that.

At this moment I'm wearing pajama pants and standing in the cluttered bedroom, trying to fill in the blank spaces in my head. I'd left a trail of used Kleenex and road-grimy clothing in my wake throughout the place. I walked across and looked into the bathroom. Yep. There were scattered articles of clothing and balled-up Kleenex everywhere in there too … plus the towel I had dried off with. Clothes strewn everywhere.

Like House after his first surgery …

I blanked for a moment as a scenario from the past played out before my glazed-over eyes:

….

It was the time when he had just been discharged from the hospital and was confined to his apartment in the agonizing weeks after the infarction and botched procedures. To say that he was unforgiving … angry … bitter … vengeful … did not begin to cut it.

It was excruciatingly painful for him to _move_ , let alone take care of personal hygiene, cook meals, or give a damn what his surroundings and his pain-wracked body looked or smelled like.

I would go over there every day after work while my new wife seethed with jealousy at home. I would change House's bandages, trying not to notice the tears that wet his cheeks; looking away from him while he bit his lip 'til it bled, trying to keep from mewling.

I would cleanse the pain-sweat off his body, change his clothing, try to get him to eat something, (hoping he would take least a few bites,) and clean up the debris he left all over the place. Most of it scattered around the old couch …

The worst part was cleaning the bathroom. It hurt like hell for him to get from couch to wheelchair without help, and from wheelchair to the commode. He could not move his leg; he had to drag it, and he would sometimes miss the bowl. The bathroom had a urine-and-feces odor that was hard to eradicate. When I went there, the entire apartment often smelled of poop and bleach. House was not aware of it. He was not aware of _anything_ except the pain. He took oxycodone like candy. The strength of the meds dimmed his agony for a while, but it always came back.

He would scream at me, and curse and swear, and usually I wanted to punch him in the mouth just to shut him up. But I couldn't. He was the best friend I had in the world, and he was in agony. Finally, I learned to ignore him and let him wear himself out until he was exhausted and senseless and silent, because there was nothing I could do for him except _be_ there.

In the evenings I would pour each of us a whiskey and sit with him on the couch … that awful old couch. Depending on his mood, he would sometimes move against me and lean his head on my shoulder. Often, he would bite back tears and apologize for the verbal abuse he caused me. I would hold him close and wipe the moisture off his forehead with my sleeve.

….

Those were painful nagging memories, and I brought myself up short.

Sighing, I picked up after myself and was alarmed at the mountain of garbage and dirty laundry I had accumulated in less than ten hours. I had to find somewhere to get things washed and dried before I ran out of clothing to wear. It was getting critical.

It was after nine o'clock. I was hungry, and I should ask someone at the desk if there was a laundry on premises. I dressed quickly in my last flannel shirt and blue jeans. The walk to the lobby wasn't as far as it had seemed last night, nor was it as dark and silent. There was a fire still going in the beautiful stone fireplace on the eastern wall, and there were about a half-dozen people either having coffee in easy chairs before the fire or walking to or from the front entrance.

Behind the registration counter were two women: a pretty brunette and a gray haired older woman wearing a black and red flannel shirt with a red neckerchief and silver-spur earrings. With raised eyebrows, I smiled at the cute one, busy with a new registration, and walked over to her companion.

The feisty "Granny type" eyed me with raised eyebrows and steely gray eyes over the tops of her blue-tinted bifocals. "Mornin'," she said with a smile. "How'd ya sleep, Mister Wilson?"

I frowned. "Unhhh … fine."

"Good. My husband says you were a little 'out of it' when you checked in last night." Her smile quickly widened. "Wish I could've seen that. He said it was the first time he ever saw a man walking in his sleep. He thought at first that you were loaded."

"Really? I wasn't loaded … I was tired to the bone …"

"I know. That's why I wish I could'a seen you come in. Buster said you were very entertaining."

I frowned, scratched my head and looked over the tops of my glasses the same way she'd looked at me over hers. "I'm not sure how to comment on that. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she said. "Fire away."

"Do you insult _all_ your guests?"

She laughed again. "Nope … only the cute ones with no clue …"

"Oh Mom … stop that!" The brunette at her side elbowed her on the arm and made the kind of face I'd seen a thousand times before when kids were embarrassed by a parent.

I looked around me and saw, to my chagrin, that a few people had gathered from around the lobby and stopped to listen to the exchange. Already I was picturing another sticky situation getting out of hand if I let it. But Granny stopped it in its infancy, for which I was grateful. "Honey … it's all right. I was just going to offer Mister Wilson here breakfast … on the house … mostly because I picked on him and he's being a really good sport about it …"

My jaw dropped to my beltline and I know my eyes were large and round with surprise. I dropped my chin to my chest and I could feel my face getting warm. Those around us were smiling, one or two of them chuckling out loud.

She told me her name was Gypsy, and we walked to the restaurant together. She'd been named for Gypsy Rose Lee. Her mother had once had illusions of her daughter becoming a cabaret dancer like the real Gypsy, back in the thirties.

She said when she was little, Mom dressed her up in a slinky costume and entered her in a local talent contest. She hated it. She sat in the dressing room in a tight, itchy dress and smeared lipstick around her mouth like a clown and eye-black in huge dark circles around both eyes. That was the first and last time she'd ever "almost-but-not-quite" performed in a talent show.

"I wanted to be in rodeos and ride horses, not wiggle my fanny in a chorus line …" And then she laughed until I laughed too. "I could barrel race and bulldog and calf-rope better than most men. My horse's name was Charley … you know … 'Charley Horse' … and I was pretty good. Broke my mother's heart. But she understood later."

While we sat together eating breakfast, Gypsy and I exchanged childhood memories, and I had to confess that the closest I ever came to a horse was the merry-go-round in the park back home. That struck her funny, and her raucous laughter had people at the tables near us laughing too. She told me about her early life working with the rodeo, swamping the stalls and caring for the rodeo horses that worked hard to earn their masters a living in that fascinating, dirty world. It taught her to value all forms of life and a willingness to preserve it, she said. And it gave her an acceptance of life for its own sake.

I watched her animated face, smiling when she smiled; wide-eyed when she spoke about the many dangerous aspects of rodeo. I sat grinning when she talked about how she met Buster, who had been a rodeo clown, one of the most dangerous of all professions. He had been gored in the thigh by a bull while trying to distract the animal away from its injured rider. Herself! They patched her up at the hospital and she went to Buster's room to thank him for saving her life, and to see how he was. They were made for each other, she said; the cowgirl and the ex-rodeo clown.

Buster's rodeo days were over. He underwent surgery, she said, and ended up with a hole in his leg the size of Georgia. He would always walk with a cane. But they fell in love that day at the hospital and were married soon after, while Buster was still in a wheelchair.

When their daughter Marlene came along later, they gave up the rodeo life and settled down to more conventional pursuits. In the 1970s they bought the Whiteface Mountain Inn, named for white-faced Herford cattle, and for the white face of the mountain in winter. The rest, as they say, was history.

"You and Buster make me think of a friend I had once," I said after a period of silence. "He didn't exactly learn to _accept_ the raw deal life handed him, but he learned to live with it, even though it wasn't in a good way. I learned a lot about life from him."

The look she gave me was filled with questions.

And so I told her about Gregory House …

"He bailed me out of jail. I was attending a medical convention. I was in the middle of a nasty divorce, and I was in a bar, getting drunk. Some idiot kept playing the same song on the juke box over and over, and I told him I'd break his neck if he didn't stop.

"He said: 'Bring it on, Babyface!' … and I threw a full bottle of Scotch at him … missed … and it went through the plate-glass mirror behind the bar. I wasn't a very good shot.

"My friend bailed me out and said I was the only person he met who wasn't boring. I paid for the damages and we left the convention together. We were best friends from that time on. More than twenty years …"

"What happened to him, James?" Gypsy asked. "You said he was a friend you had ' _once'_. Are you a doctor? And aren't you friends anymore?"

"Yes," I said. "Greg and I are both doctors. We worked together at the same hospital in Jersey. We and our girlfriends double-dated a lot. I finally married and we left on our honeymoon.

"When we got back, I learned that he'd had an infarction in his thigh. That means he had a blood clot that blocked the artery. By the time they finally diagnosed him, he had been out of his mind with pain for almost three days. They thought he was a drug seeker.

He ended up like Buster did … with a hole in his leg. Muscle death. They operated to get rid of dead muscle tissue, and it turned him into a cripple. He was in a wheelchair for months. Finally walked with crutches for almost a year, and then switched to a cane. That's as far as it got. He was in chronic pain, and it turned him bitter. Angry. His girlfriend left him. Couldn't take the constant verbal abuse.

"He finally walked away and went off alone. Nobody knows where. I've been looking for him off and on, but it's been nearly five years. Sometimes I think I'm getting close. Other times, I think it's a lost cause and I should probably let it go …"

Gypsy's eyes were moist. "That's such a sad story, James. You're still looking for this man, after all this time?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"You want to know what I think?"

"Of course …."

"You'll find him. I know you will, because you haven't stopped searching for _five years!_ You know what that says to me?"

"What?"

"It tells me that you love Greg, and you'll find him."

When I finally thanked her and went back to my room, I was still thinking about what she'd said. Later, she called her housekeeping people and sent my wash to the laundry in the basement … free of charge. I felt as though I'd somehow 'guilted' her into it …

In the days I spent there, I met her daughter, Marlene, (the pretty brunette), and also Gypsy's husband, Buster, the man who'd had such fun checking me in the night I arrived. One or another of them was always around when I took my meals. I understood in a very short time why the Whiteface Mountain Inn was always filled nearly to capacity. Their family name was Bennett, and every brother, sister, niece, nephew, aunt, uncle and cousin had a hand in running that beautiful old hotel. At last I'd landed in a place without monsoon weather, police chases, bullet-riddled walls or clunker vans hanging off the side of cliffs ...

I stayed for a week, and it was one of the most pleasant interludes of my recent life.

I chucked the head cold in three days.

On the next-to-last day I sat with my laptop on the table in my room, lazily killing time watching the view out the window and checking medical websites online. I had forgotten exactly where it was I'd left off the day before. My head kept returning to the crazy happenings of a week earlier when I was so rudely interrupted by one local drama after another. I finally got back onto the site of the New England Medical Journal.

The article that caught my eye had been written at the beginning of October this year … a little over a month ago …

The words hit me right in the middle of my forehead … like someone had thrown a stone and connected.

No mistake.

I had found Gregory House.

The latest article by Dr. Kyle Calloway: "Kidney Disease and its Effects on the Physically Disabled."

I could hardly believe my eyes.

I read the parade of words from start to finish, and as always, I experienced the nervousness of sudden discovery tingling down my spine; the thrill of actually recalling House's deep, resonant voice in the air above me; his choice of vocabulary so rich and so filled with theories and enunciations, his methods of forming sentences, his speech patterns so close to sarcasm and disrespect, but bold and analytical and full of inspiration and intelligence. And there was no mistake … the author was taking about himself.

It was House. It was Gregory House personified. I could hear his deep voice echoing in my head.

I felt myself longing to hear him call me an idiot; tell me I was a moron. Trembling with elation, I knew I was close. The only thing still separating us was the miles ...

Gypsy was right: I did indeed love him. Venerated him. I had soft-pedaled it too long. I needed to see him, hear his voice and spend time with him again.

If he would have me. **IF** he would have me …

When I finished reading, I looked upward and out the window again … seeing his scruffy face outlined in the dark, wintry slopes of the Adirondack Mountains. Hearing his bark of sarcastic laughter echoing around me …

I couldn't help wondering how he was really faring healthwise after five long years of no contact and no word. "Kidney Disease in the Physically Disabled": it sounded as though his own kidneys might be giving up the ghost. I had no clue. I just knew I had to find him.

I stared at the mountains as tears rimmed my eyes and threatened to fall. Just like his used to do when the pain got so bad he couldn't contain it. In certain ways my pain was nearly as bad, and only one thing would relieve it.

The article in the journal had originated from a place called Etna, New Hampshire.

I had to tell Gypsy and thank her.

And Buster and Marlene.

And then I had to get the hell out of New York and head due north, due east and get myself to that one place where I needed to be:

By his side.

338


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

"No Rest for the Weary"

I GOT A PHONE CALL MONDAY MORNING WHILE I WAS TRYING TO GET READY FOR MY APPOINTMENT WITH ED THOREAU AND HIS TEAM. THE DELIVERY TRUCK WAS ABOUT TEN MILES OUT AND THEY HAD MY NEW COUCH AND CHAIR. WAS I AVAILABLE TO TAKE DELIVERY ABOUT EIGHT?

TALK ABOUT TIMING! THE SYLVESTER HOUSE WAS NEWLY PAINTED AND LOOKED BEAUTIFUL, AT LEAST IN MY ESTIMATION. MY APARTMENT WAS FRESHLY PAINTED IN THE COLORS I HAD DESIGNATED, AND THE SMELL OF NEWNESS STILL HUNG IN THE AIR. AND NOW THEY WERE JUST A FEW MINUTES FROM MAKING DELIVERY ON MY NEW FURNITURE. WOW!

WHAT THE HELL COULD I SAY EXCEPT "YES"… ? I FROWNED INTO THE PHONE, WONDERING IF I WAS HEARING THE GUY RIGHT. I HAD ONLY ORDERED THE STUFF ONLINE LAST THURSDAY.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER THEY HAMMERED ON THE FRONT DOOR WHILE I WAS BACK IN THE BEDROOM WITH THE BED UNMADE AND A PILE OF DIRTY CLOTHES FROM YESTERDAY STILL PILED ON THE CHAIR.

"HOLD YOUR HORSES! I'M COMING."

I GUESS THEY DIDN'T HEAR ME, BECAUSE THE THUMP AT THE FRONT DOOR CAME AGAIN. LOUDER THIS TIME.

 _*SON OF A BITCH …*_

"CUT IT OUT, DAMMIT … I'M COMING!" THIS TIME AT THE TOPS OF MY LUNGS.

WHEN I FINALLY MADE IT TO THE LIVING ROOM, I WAS ONLY HALF-DRESSED … P.J. TOP AND A PAIR OF UNBUTTONED BLUE JEANS. CRUTCHES. NO SOCKS, NO SHOE. I YANKED THE DOOR OPEN AND BELLOWED INTO THE STARTLED FACE OF THE GUY STANDING THERE: "CAN'T YOU READ THE DAMN SIGN? THIS IS A 'HANDICAP' UNIT. I NEED TIME TO GET TO THE DOOR BEFORE YOU KNOCK IT DOWN."

THE MAN IN FRONT OF ME HAD A CLIPBOARD IN ONE HAND, AND WHEN HE SAW ME FACING HIM LOOKING LIKE A CIRCUS CLOWN IN BLUE JEANS, WHITE P.J. TOP AND RED CRUTCHES, HIS FIST FROZE IN MID-AIR AND HIS JAW DROPPED TO HIS CHEST IN WIDE-EYED SURPRISE. "JESUS, MAN, I'M SORRY. I WASN'T THINKING …"

HIS GAZE FELL QUICKLY TO MY CROOKED FOOT, STILL WITHOUT A SOCK FROM MY EFFORTS TO HURRY. THE SMALL DIFFERENCE IN FLOOR CLEARANCE CAUSED BY MY BARE FEET HAD AFFECTED MY STABILITY. I LISTED CRAZILY, TRYING TO MAINTAIN A DELICATE BALANCE. HE GRABBED MY SHOULDERS AND SHORED ME UP, OR I WOULD HAVE RICOCHETTED OFF THE WALL.

I BIT OFF MY ANGER AND THANKED HIM FOR THE ASSIST AS MY LEG JOLTED INTO A WARNING SPASM. "YOU'D BETTER COME INSIDE, BECAUSE IF I DON'T SIT DOWN, I'M GONNA GO ON MY REAR." I SAT DOWN HEAVILY ON THE BIG BLACK LOUNGE CHAIR, LEANED THE CRUTCHES BESIDE ME AND GRASPED MY THIGH.

THE GUY WATCHED IN SILENCE, AT A LOSS TO DO ANYTHING; CLUELESS AND ALARMED. I HELD UP A HAND IN FRONT OF HIM. "GIVE ME A MINUTE …" AND LEANED BACK.

He squatted at my feet, reached beneath my calf and gently straightened my leg, raising it to a point that was level with the rest of my body. The cramp began to ease. I stared at him. "How'd you know to do that?"

"First aid course I took a long time ago. Lift the legs level with the heart … something like that. Is that better? Honest to God, Mister Calloway, I didn't mean to hurt you …"

I waved him off and took a deep breath. "It's okay. My leg is fragile and I wasn't expecting anyone. No harm, no foul. It's loosening now. You can put my foot back down …"

He eased my heel onto the floor and stood up.

Behind him in the open doorway, a second man appeared, curious about the delay. "What's going on, Chuck?" He looked from his co-worker to me and back again, quickly assessing the situation. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, Vince," Chuck replied. "I think so."

I looked up at the two of them. Young, able-bodied, earnest; wanting to do what they'd come to do and get going again as soon as possible. "Okay, gentlemen, why are you delivering furniture at 8:00 in the morning?"

"We're with Minnich Furniture Warehouse in Rutland, Vermont, sir." Chuck held out his clipboard and showed me the work order. "It says you ordered a Powerglide leather sofa and recliner from the website last Thursday. You are Kyle Calloway, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm Kyle Calloway. You're delivering them already? It's less than a week."

"I guess we're that fast, Mr. Calloway. We process orders quickly, and our warehouse is only a little over fifty miles away from you. Yours is the first delivery today, and there are four more sets just like it still on the truck. Would you like to tell us where you want your new sofa and chair?"

They were like puppies now; anxious to please, ready to show their prowess, and almost pathetically eager to assist the crippled guy.

What the hell was it with people from New England? Nobody was ever in a bad mood. I had never met anyone like New Englanders before, and I was kind of liking it. I looked from one to the other and couldn't help shaking my head and smiling. "Okay boys, let's make it quick, 'cause I have an appointment this morning that I have to get to. Let's be at it, shall we? The couch goes in the middle of the room … across from the front door. The chair goes in the niche there at the window. Okay? I don't know what to do with the black thing. It doesn't work in here. Can you leave it on the front porch for now?"

I began to settle the crutches to stand up, but neither young man was having any of that. At my first move, two incredibly strong bodies were lifting beneath my arms until I was standing upright, crutches quickly positioned beneath me. They backed off smiling when I pulled a surprised breath and thanked them again for their help. They grabbed the black chair and scooted it out to the porch, and then disappeared into the back of the truck parked at the curb.

The new sofa and chair are both huge. I marveled in the softness of the rich, burnished brown leather. The men placed the recliner in the niche where the black lounge chair had been, and it fit there like it had occupied that setting for years. Chuck plugged it into the wall socket and helped me ease into it. "Try it," he said. When I touched the control, the footrest lifted slowly, and the longer I pressed the button, the further back it reclined. I did not have to exert an ounce of effort. I should have got myself one of these fifteen years ago.

We didn't activate the controls for the sofa because we knew right away that a long power cord stretched across the floor to reach an electrical outlet would be dangerous for me. So the boys plugged it in to make sure it worked, and then wrapped up the cord and stowed it beneath until I could contact an electrician to set an outlet into the floor.

By 8:30 they were caught up, which gave me plenty of time to finish getting ready and leave for my appointment at ten. They packed up their papers after I had signed the delivery slip, and they handed me my copy. I thanked them again and closed the door behind them. A minute later I heard the big six-wheeler pull out and snorkel its way down the street.

Too bad I couldn't plug in the couch right away. Well, I could, but who wants to trip over an eight-foot power cord stretched across the middle of the floor? It would be great to flop there tonight when I would be hurting like hell … with a beer and a good book. I could still sit on the couch, I guessed, but I'd have to forego the sensation of 'riding it' for another time. I must check the info sheet I'd got from Bill Perry, listing the names of the group of maintenance people who looked after the Sylvester House. There had to be a good electrician among them. I never thought to ask before.

I still had to purchase a TV. One of those big fancy wide-screen ones. The one I'd left behind in New Jersey was one of the bulky old analogue sets … not very state-of-the-art anymore. I might even get someone to come in here and hang the new one on the wall.

I suddenly remembered I could afford to be extravagant.

I finished getting dressed, easy enough, except for the shoe and socks. Manipulating my right leg and foot is a pain. Literally. I've been bitching about it for years. Beads of sweat stood out on my forehead when I finally got it done. The usual bullshit. Putting on a clean shirt was a lot easier.

My old Dynasty is parked around the corner in the alley at the end of the lot. There are three garages down there, but all of them are occupied by tenants who were here long before me. I can't just order one of them out for my own convenience, and I wonder how it'll work out over the winter months. I've heard the snow around here gets "asshole-deep-to-a-tall-Injun". (Jake's description, not mine.) I guess I'll find out when the crappy weather gets here, won't I?

I must not bitch about that too. I chose to live here, after all …

I made it to the car okay, pulled open the driver's door and eased myself inside. My leg was being damn unreasonable; it didn't like being hustled around as I settled my foot onto the pillow I'd put on the other side of the transmission hump to cushion it. I settled the backpak on the passenger seat and cranked the engine; let it run awhile to get the oil circulating before I moved out. It was about twenty-five minutes 'til ten when I finally pulled onto the street to head for Lebanon.

I was hungry. With the furniture delivery and me trying to get ready to leave, it threw a monkey wrench into the machinery and I took more time than I should have. Lily and the boys would wonder where in hell I was. I sucked it up and made up my mind I wouldn't starve before whatever time Ed and his boys were finished with me …

Anyhow, I pulled into my pilfered parking space at the rear of the hospital at ten sharp. Really hugging the line. I struggled out of the car with the backpak over my shoulder and went in the back way as I had done before. My leg was cramped and shooting sparks by the time I'd finally navigated the hallway and stumbled out into the lobby. I paused and leaned against a wall long enough to dig out a pair of Immitrax to tame it down.

There was a gray haired, salt'n'pepper-bearded black guy in a lab coat … stethoscope around his neck … kind of "Eric Foreman-ish"… standing by the admissions desk. There was a wheelchair parked by his side. I kept an eye on him as I approached, and wasn't at all surprised when he held up a hand to stop me before I got in line to sign in. I figured they had already savvied up to the fact that I'd stolen somebody's parking space out back, and did not waste time waiting for me at the front entrance.

"You're Kyle Calloway, I presume," he said pleasantly, staring at the red crutches.

My first impulse was to growl: * _What the hell gave you the first clue, genius_?* But I reined it in and gave a more polite reply instead. "That would be me. Are you part of Thoreau's surgical team?"

He grinned and turned the wheelchair around so I could collapse into it. (Which I did.) "That would be me," he said with raised eyebrows. "I'm Dr. Firestone. Dr. Thoreau tells me you don't need to sign in; he's already taken care of it. I'm pleased to meet you … would you mind giving me your pain level?"

 _*The vanguard is marshalling its forces,*_ I thought with dismal certainty as he assisted me to settle into the chair, took my crutches and clamped them onto the rear. I hung the backpak on one of the handles, took a deep breath and held it while he placed both hands beneath my calf and lifted my leg slowly onto the raised legrest. "Good to meet you too," I said guardedly. "It's about level six, give or take a level either way …"

His eyebrows went up. "That high? Isn't that unusual?"

"Not for me. It fluctuates, and I had to hurry this morning. Sometimes I can get it down to a two or a three. Hardly ever below a two. The pain is chronic; never goes away completely. The nerves are truncated and often misfire. The fragmented muscle goes into spasm easily. I've had to learn to live with it. The scar has almost doubled in size since the first surgery; and I've had three. I can't straighten my leg all the way anymore, and it's been in contracture and inversion for a couple of years. I can't bear weight, and it's just a matter of time before … you know …"

I made a "Gaagghkkk …" sound and drew an index finger across my throat for emphasis. Not funny. But it _was_ … in a ghoulish way …

Ernie Firestone could not keep the pity … disbelief … whatever it was … from showing briefly on his face. I smirked to myself and looked away from him. God, how I hated seeing the base emotions my problem created in other people; especially doctors who were supposed to brace themselves against it. Inwardly I seethed. I had purposely caught this man with his defenses down, and he was probably someone who really gave a damn about his patients. I shouldn't condemn him … I had laid quite a load of shit on him.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," he said at last. "Dr. Thoreau told me about your problem, but he didn't go into detail. I've noticed though, that your leg, between knee and ankle, has very little muscle tone remaining. That speaks to me about the amount of pain you must be experiencing."

When I looked up again, we were stopped in front of the bank of elevators I had seen before. There were people waiting in front of all of them. Firestone didn't muscle his way to the front of the line as I'd seen other doctors do. Patiently we waited our turn and then he pushed me, and the wheelchair, to the back of the car.

We rode straight up to Thoreau's office on the third floor.

Ed Thoreau was there with another man; this one younger by about ten years. Taller, slimmer, dark eyes, dark hair going gray; snappy dresser. This, I assumed, was Joe Garrett, also an orthopedic surgeon, and the techno-wizard of the group. I would like to have had an opportunity to pick his brain at length, I thought, but this was not the time. They were the Masters and I was the serf. Sort of.

Garrett took one look at me and said: "Dr. Calloway, I'm Joe Garrett, and I'm going to be your torturer for the next few hours. We need X-Rays, CT scan, MRI … some heavy imaging of your leg, hip and foot so we can get a detailed look into what we're dealing with. If we confirm that the leg must come off, then we also need to do a thorough bloodwork-and-bone study to decide whether one of our prosthetics can work for you. It's going to be a long day. Are you up for it?"

"I hope so …" I could think of nothing more to add … except that I was hungry … and right now that was immaterial.

We took our leave of Ed and Ernie at 11:00 a.m. Joe swung the wheelchair around and headed back the wide hallway to the place that Thoreau called "The Garage". I immediately took note of the irony.

"I'm going to take you to X-Ray first, Dr. Calloway," Garrett said. "When we get there, I'll give you an injection. I want extensive pictures of your scar area and also your foot; bone and muscle. To do that I guess you already know I'll have to reposition your leg a few times to get the best pictures we can. That's very important, both for diagnostics and for studying the best areas to insert the sensors for your prosthetic … if indeed we can use one …

"Yeah … I got it … and let's not beat around the bush; we both know it has to come off sooner or later. Nerve block is good. That'll keep it from going into spasm, and me from going through the roof. And do me a favor … call me 'Kyle' and I'll call you 'Joe'. All this formality when there are no patients around is for the birds."

Garrett chuckled softly under his breath. "I'll be happy to do that, Kyle, except that you _are_ the patient here. I don't set much store on the formal stuff either. It doesn't impress anybody but the PTB. Tell me: how many times in a normal day does your leg go into spasm? Does it happen every day? Or does it cut you a break now and then? Can you give me a ball-park figure?"

I frowned. I had never had that particular question put to me in such a way, and I had never had any occasion to keep a running account. "Wow! I don't know," I said slowly. "Never thought about it. All I ever think about is getting them to stop."

"That's understandable," he said. "Pretty painful, are they?"

"I can't begin to tell you, Joe. When they hit, I pretty much turn into a puddle of protoplasm. I can't think, can't reason, can't move. Most of the time I wrap both hands around the scar and squeeze until it feels like my entire leg is going to come off in my hands. When it gets that bad, I inject myself with morphine because I don't want to pass out on the floor and knock myself out or kick something over and end up bloody. It's happened like that a couple of times in the past ….

"Some days I don't have any spasms at all, or I get lucky and I'm able to stop one before it turns me into a blubbering idiot.

"Before, when I was still ambulatory, if I felt one coming on, I'd pace the halls, wearing myself down by trying to stave them off. Like trying to 'walk off' a Charley Horse, only worse. Other days they come one after another, and I'm just no damn good for anything. Sometimes it takes me a couple of days just to recover and get my strength back. When the muscle spasms and the nerve endings get together at the same time, I scream like a stuck pig. Fortunately though, that doesn't happen very often. But when it does, I've sometimes ended up in the emergency room …"

"Jesus Christ!" He muttered. "How the hell do you live like that? I'd have gone out of my mind a long time ago …"

 _*Little does he know … I_ _ **AM**_ _out of my mind!*_

His words; not funny at all, made me want to break into maniacal laughter … and laugh until I lost consciousness …

We were both quiet. I'd admitted more to this man, a virtual stranger, than I had ever admitted to anyone before. Not even James Wilson. The flood of words tumbled out of my mouth in a torrent that rivaled some of my spontaneous diagnostic epiphanies shouted to empty rooms and deserted hallways.

I hadn't done it for the shock value. It was an unburdening cathartic that had taken years to come to the surface and finally spill out. It felt good to release the pressure of the long silences, but now I wondered if I had said too much …

In the X-Ray chamber, I exchanged the wheelchair for a gurney, and my street clothing for one of those stupid hospital gowns. Joe Garrett was fast and gentle and skilled in his manipulations. The injection of a mid-level Paravertebral block at hip level numbed my entire leg for the amount of time he would have to manipulate it during the imaging sessions … I felt my leg quiver for a few seconds … and then the Twilight Zone began to spread. Like my leg was on vacation, lazing in the sun beside a crystal pool, and I was a little woozy too, although still fully conscious.

I was aware of traveling from X-Ray to the CT Scanner … where the images would show my entire leg and foot as a series of slices … like a loaf of sandwich bread. I think I must have dozed off in there, because when I woke up, we were in the dimmed MRI imaging area, and I was about to be lifted bodily from the gurney onto a state-of-the-art Open MRI … nothing like the sensation of having been entombed in an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus.

I started, alarmed, and thought to sit up and get off the gurney to walk around. I was gently restrained by two sets of strong masculine hands, and pressed back to lie on the surface again.

The hammering of the damned MRI magnets was like someone using an air hammer to repair a pothole in concrete right over my head … even with the ear plugs they gave me … but I kept still for the time it took to process one foot and leg and hip … about twenty minutes. It was nice to come back to sudden silence again when it was over.

When I looked at the time, I was highly surprised to note that it was after three o'clock in the afternoon. My stomach thought my throat had been cut.

Joe and another costumed attendant wheeled me back to where we'd left the wheelchair. Joe helped me off the gurney and into the chair and assisted me with getting dressed again in my blue jeans and one sneaker. My shirt I could do by myself, and my coat and backpak were still in Ed Thoreau's office.

The anesthetic had worn off completely by the time Joe and I got back there. Thoreau and Firestone were standing in front of a big X-Ray screen when we came through the door, and the picture they were looking at was of a very long right leg, extending from hip to foot. To a layman, it was just a black and white X-Ray. No biggie. But to a doctor, highly trained to interpret such things, it was something entirely different.

The femur showed scars of bone loss and trauma in the area where the femur joined with the tibia at the Intercondylar eminence. Three subsequent surgeries, each laying waste to another section of the powerful quadriceps muscle, had nicked bone and cartilage in a swath of destruction. Each surgery had seriously diminished mobility and depleted strength until the utility of the leg was all but compromised and too far depleted to be of use in the way that nature intended.

Down below, the bones of the foot, bent inward in contracture, showed calcification and disfigurement that was steadily spreading, as the ridges of progression showed clearly.

I stared at it in mute understanding, contemplating what the CAT Scan and MRI would look like when they came back from the lab.

"It's not diseased, I don't think," Ernie Firestone was saying. "But it's calcified, deep into inversion, and the missing muscle mass seems to be shrinking further. I'm sorry, Dr. Calloway, but you won't walk on it again."

"He knows," Joe Garrett said. "He's known for a long time. How do you feel, Kyle?"

I snorted through my nose and offered a snarky grin. "It is what it is …"

That's not what he asked me …

After the other two left to attend to urgent duties, Ed Thoreau and I sat alone in his office. "What happened with the brace I gave you? Too tight? Make you hurt worse? What are you going to do now?" He asked.

"All of the above … and I don't know," I replied truthfully.

"Will you go back to Jersey after the procedure? Or will you stick around here and continue to work part time?"

"Stick around, I guess. I just bought The Sylvester House from the bank. I'm in the process of moving in. I like Etna, and I've made a few friends there …"

"Gonna start all over, huh? Nothing left for you in Jersey?"

I shrugged. "Not sure. Jersey's history though. Nothing I want back there. I could consult, maybe. I used to be a pretty good diagnostician. Not bad at Nephrology either. I know a little about infectious diseases. Not sure how believable I'd be as a doctor riding a wheelchair or bumbling around on crutches."

"Ever think about research? Working on ways to help folks with disabilities like yours?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Ever think about widening your horizons, Kyle? Are you going to remain Kyle Calloway, or go back to being Gregory House? Stepping outside the circle … taking some chances … finish clearing up your mess back in Princeton. You can't hide forever, you know."

I glared at the man.

 _*What the hell?*_

My eyebrow went up in puzzlement.

"Oh come on," he teased. "Don't be so damn obtuse.

"Stick around and work with me … permanently … here … at this hospital."

347


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

"The Four-Wheeled Wonder"

TUESDAY MORNING DAWNED WITH A SOUPY OVERCAST. THE GRAY OF THE SKIES REFLECTED THE GRAYNESS OF MY MOOD. I AWOKE JUST AS DAWN WAS BREAKING, AND FOUND THAT I COULD NOT GET OUT OF BED. AS A MATTER OF FACT, I COULDN'T MOVE.

MY LEG, THE VILLAN OF THIS PATHETIC DRAMA, WAS FROZEN IN PLACE ON THE BED'S SURFACE. NO AMOUNT OF EFFORT ON MY PART COULD GET IT TO UNLOCK FROM ITS FROZEN POSITION, BECAUSE THE PAIN MADE MY HEAD REEL WITH EVERY EFFORT. IT WAS ALMOST AS IF I HAD BECOME WELDED TO THE SPOT AND MY RIGHT ASS CHEEK GLUED TO THE MATTRESS. ALL ATTEMPTS TO MOVE CAUSED WAVES OF HURT TO RADIATE FROM MY HIP TO MY NEUROPATHIC TOES, MAKING ME BITE MY LIP TO PREVENT A SHRIEK THAT WOULD RATTLE THE WINDOWS.

IT TOOK MY BREATH AWAY. I LAY PARTLY OVER ON MY LEFT SIDE, PANTING, AS FAR AS I COULD GO; TEARS SPRINGING TO MY EYES AT THE STABBING SENSATIONS IN MY HIP, AND THE ANSWERING PULSE IN THE AREA AROUND THE SCAR. I ROLLED BACK ONTO THE PILLOW AND WAITED FOR THINGS TO DIE DOWN.

 _*FUCK!*_

YESTERDAY'S INTENSE SESSION OF X-RAYS AND SCANS AND UNACCUSTOMED EFFORT HAD TAKEN THEIR TOLL ON WHAT WAS LEFT OF MY MOBILITY. I WOULD HAVE TO TAKE THINGS SLOWLY TODAY; EASE GRADUALLY INTO MOTION UNTIL ALL THE KINKS SMOOTHED OUT AND I COULD NAVIGATE AGAIN.

IT TOOK FOREVER. TEN MINUTES SEEMS LIKE TEN DAYS WHEN PAIN KEEPS YOU PINNED TO THE SPOT. I MOVED MY ARMS DOWN AND ENCIRCLED MY THIGH JUST ABOVE THE KNEE WITH BOTH HANDS, TAKING NOTE WITH ANNOYANCE THAT I COULD REACH ALL THE WAY AROUND THE LIMB TO THE POINT THAT MY FINGERS AND THUMBS OVERLAPPED ON BOTH SIDES. I WAS LOSING MUSCLE TONE AT AN ALARMING RATE.

I BEGAN TO FLEX MY KNEE MANUALLY IN CAUTIOUS INCREMENTS UNTIL I COULD BEGIN TO MOVE IT A LITTLE UNDER ITS OWN POWER. SAME WITH MY HIP. I ROLLED FROM SIDE TO SIDE UNTIL I COULD DO IT JUST ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF COMFORT. GRADUALLY I PUSHED UPWARD UNTIL I WAS SITTING ON THE EDGE OF THE BED, PROPPED THERE PANTING, WITH BOTH HANDS ON THE MATTRESS BEHIND ME.

 _*SONNOVOBITCH!*_

I WISHED WILSON WERE HERE. I COULD HAVE USED HIS STURDY SHOULDER TO LEAN ON.

When I hauled my miserable ass into the wheelchair, the first object I grabbed was Willy Ortiz's bottle of little pink Immitrax, quickly swallowing two of them.

I spent the morning in the wheelchair when I wasn't wallowing in the recliner. I was in the most discomfort I'd yet experienced since coming to this part of the country, and I was suddenly seized with an almost desperate desire to have the thing off me; have it gone and give me some peace.

The day was a cold, rainy, sleety, misty mess, and I could feel it deep in my bones. The furnace ran almost nonstop, keeping the place warm. I wanted nothing to do with walking across the street for a meal at the Watson Inn. I'd probably break my neck tripping over the opposite curb. I would rather starve to death. I still felt too weak to try rummaging in the cupboards or refrigerator for something from there that I would have to either cook or construct.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Bill Perry at the bank. (Something to distract me.) After a preliminary exchange of boring niceties, I asked for the name of the electrician who had contracted to work for Sylvester House. I could have asked the painters, but I forgot,

"Bill Noble," Perry said immediately, reading off the man's number, which I immediately punched into my phone. "He's an older guy, Kyle, but he knows what he's doing. He comes highly recommended.

"How are you, Kyle? Is your apartment shaping up okay? Were you able to find everything we stashed in your closets and drawers and shelves?"

I snickered. For two days I couldn't find _anything …_ but I didn't tell him that. "You clowns didn't hide stuff from me as well as you thought you did. I even found my box of toothbrushes under the damn sink, and I can get in and out of the kitchen now. The old butcher's block fits fine in there. So I'm getting familiar with the place," I said. "I had the building painted … inside and out, upstairs and down. It makes quite a bit of difference. I'm sort of pleased with it … in a girly way, I suppose. None of the tenants have bitched, so I guess they like it too. They still don't know who their landlord is … or why in hell all this work is suddenly getting done …"

He laughed and I continued. "Two guys delivered a new leather couch and recliner for me yesterday. Pretty cool. They're power-glides, and that's the reason I called you. I need an outlet installed beneath the couch so I don't kill myself tripping over an extension cord. The heating element on the chair feels pretty good though. You should drop by sometime and look 'em over …"

Bill laughed slowly. "I really need to do that, my friend. When I do, I'll bring a bottle along. Maybe we can scare up enough guys for a poker game, huh?"

"That is one hell of a good idea. I can already think of three guys who would be interested." Perry had something there, I thought.

After that we rang off, and I settled back into the softness of the warm leather.

I bitched under my breath at the persistent pain of movement. I dug in my pocket for the Immitrax vial and gulped two more of them. I wished I had a TV so I could channel surf. I needed a distraction, and I didn't have one at the moment; at least nothing that I didn't have to get physical for …

I decided to call Bill Noble and arrange to have an electrical outlet installed. Maybe he could do the work tomorrow sometime. Another twelve to eighteen hours should give me enough time to work the rest of the kinks out so I could meet him at the door standing upright when he arrived. To my great surprise, Noble agreed to put in the new electrical line the next afternoon. He had other work to do in the morning, but he would see me, probably about two o'clock. We rang off and I made a 'thumbs up' in the air. "Yes!"

One more thing before this place could be called "home": I should get on line … find me a cool TV so I could channel surf until my fingers fell off ...

In the evening I pooped out early and sat on the recliner just looking around the place. It was still kind of bare. I'd have to work on that; dig some of my souvenirs out of the spare bedroom. Hang up some of the framed pictures I'd saved. In truth, I felt like an elderly man with nothing to do and no place to go.

 _*Dammit, I'm not that old! I really have to to get off my ass and quit stalling. This crap has been going on long enough!*_

I thought back to the conversation I'd had with Ed Thoreau yesterday after the day's battery of tests. He'd given me sound talking to, in a way; chiding me for not doing anything decisive with my life and cruising along on my guilty status quo. He knew I was still reluctant to have the surgery … and I was. He quizzed me about winding things up with the stupid stuff I'd pulled in Jersey. I knew if I compensated Cuddy for the damage to her house, all the charges would probably be dropped and I would no longer have to hide out under an assumed name. And I wouldn't have to make up more lies to tell the Department of Transportation when I finally changed my license plate to "resident of New Hampshire".

The more I thought about Ed's words, the more the man made sense. It would be a simple thing to write a check for full restoration to the damn house. A hundred grand ought to do it nicely. Then I could be Greg House again, but I would have to face the people of Etna. I would have to tell them about my history as a total ass … and I would have to get really honest. Would they still like me?

I'd just have to take that chance. I wrote a check, signed it, stamped it and filled out an envelope …

At 8:00 o'clock there came a knock at the door. "It's open," I grumbled. "Come on in." Who the hell could be knocking on my door at this time of night?

When the door opened, I was astounded to see that it was Lily Chamberlin and Jake Harvey. Both were wet from the freezing rain. Both were wearing plastic rain jackets and pushing a covered, large-wheel dinner cart that emitted aromas that immediately filled the room and let me know in no uncertain terms that I had not eaten anything today.

I returned the recliner to the upright position and stared like I had never seen a food cart before. Biting back a groan, I looked up at the two of them and smiled my best smile. "Wow! You two have come just in time to save my life!"

Lily took off her raincoat and laid it in the corner behind the door. She hurried over to the recliner … and me … with surprising agility for her size and age. "Oh, poor Kyle, you look so tired and worn ..." She leaned over me and planted a light kiss on the top of my head. I thought I might pass out at the incredible shock of it.

"I-I'm still sore from the exams and t-tests at the hospital yesterday," I stammered. "I'm still … t-trying to recover …"

"Poor dear," she cooed, cupping my cheeks with her hands. "Jakey and I thought you might be a little hungry, and since it's so nasty outside, you would be afraid of crossing the street. So we brought you some dinner."

Across from us, Jake Harvey was hiding his face in his sleeve as his eyes met mine in supplication, trying like crazy to not give himself away. I knew he loved Lily like she was his mother, but sometimes she embarrassed him almost to tears. His hands flew about, removing the lids from the food and getting it ready to offer to the bemused cripple across the room.

Embarrassed a bit myself, I slid my hands down Lily's arms until I could take her chubby fingers into my own and squeeze gently in silent thanks … and regain some space between us. She was a very sweet lady, but she had never made a move quite as daring as this; her earnest attempt to show support in a physical manner and express compassion through the power of touch.

Jake pushed the food cart to my side where I could reach everything easily, and pointed thumb and forefinger at the couch and recliner. "Sweet!" He commented as he grinned again in delight at my red ear tips and hot face. "I saw the truck over here yesterday morning, but I was busy with the breakfast crowd. "This is a nice set."

That quickly he had shattered the sticky mood and changed the subject. Lily quickly agreed with him.

"Thanks," I said. I had a drumstick in one hand and a slice of buttered bread in the other, and I was too hungry to waste time with a more polite acknowledgment.

We sat and shot the breeze while I stuffed my face with Lily's excellent cooking and guzzled a tall mug of potent coffee.

For ten glorious minutes I lived in Valhalla, and I was Odin …

I told them that the only thing I had yet to purchase for the apartment was a good TV to hang on the far wall beside the hallway to the bedrooms and bath. The discussion led to my idea of going online to look for one and then have it delivered in a week or so.

Jake stopped me in the middle of a sentence. "I'm pretty much of a tech freak," he said. "If you pick out the set you want, I can probably pick it up for you at Best Buy in Lebanon. I have to go over there to run a few errands tomorrow anyway …"

"Great," I said. "I know what I want … something big enough to pretty much fill up the wall space over there … and one of those metal brackets to hang it on. My laptop lays back on my bed if one of you would be so kind as to bring it out here."

By the time they left about an hour later, I had gathered the nerve to gallantly kiss the back of Lily's hand while Jake was in my bedroom getting the laptop. I was feeling very gallant, and a little less embarrassed by my impulsive gesture. (Lily was delighted.)

Jake walked out with fifteen hundred bucks of my money in his pocket, and I had been distracted for an hour while the nagging pain was replaced by the pleasure of their good company … and good food.

Wednesday afternoon, Jake Harvey brought Bill Noble over here and introduced us. (Seems they'd known each other for years … like … who around here _didn't know everybody else?_ )

Bill and I shook hands, and he went right to work drilling a hole in the floor, reaming out a chunk of wood with a hole saw, running the cable to the basement and securing it to the rafters after he'd attached it to the main. He installed a four-plug receptacle beneath my couch, all in the amount of time it would have taken me to walk to my bedroom and back. (Well, not really … but close!) Then he plugged the cord in. The surge of welcome heat in the cushions was immediate.

Bill and Jake agreed that they were up for a round of poker at my place some night … all I had to do was say the word.

I was still riding the wheelchair, but the pain in my leg and foot had diminished to a more tolerable level as we got to know one another. While he worked, Bill and I shot the shit and had a few laughs that afternoon, and soon we were insulting each other back and forth like two guys who had been friends for twenty years.

Cool. I decided I could get to like Etna, New Hampshire. A lot.

"LIVE FREE OR DIE!" (That's the state's motto.)

The next order of business would be to talk to Ed Thoreau and let him know I would be honored to work for and with him at DHMC on a fairly regular basis instead of just part time. I would do this to keep me upgraded in my specialties, even as I fought with myself over the pros and cons of having a leg sawed off at the hip … and even after the leg was long gone …

Thursday afternoon Jake and Bill walked through my front door carrying the biggest television I had ever seen. It fit on the designated wall with about an inch to spare on either side, and I was glad I hadn't settled on an even bigger one. It came with all the bells and whistles and all the state-of-the-art gew-gaws that I had no idea what to do with …

But I would learn. It had a remote control that looked like a motherboard at NASA.

Very soon the thing was hooked up to the dish antenna on the roof, and I was channel surfing like I was Bill Gates or Steve Jobs … or some genius like that.

 _*Jeez, wow and holy shit!*_

I felt like I could walk out of my living room and right into any exotic place the thing was focused on at the time. Barbados, maybe …

Tonight I would distract myself with some booze, some junk food and that remote control the size of Rhode Island.

Maybe I would go to bed drunk.

Maybe I wouldn't go to bed at all. There was a movie on HBO I'd wanted to see for years.

I gave the big black lounge chair to Bill Noble for his wife. He and Jake put it in the back of his pickup truck when they left. It was slightly damp.

He thanked me … I thanked them. Bill said I didn't owe him anything for the work he'd done. It had been fun. I said I did owe him. I said I'd be damned if I'd take his tonsils out for free, and I jammed two hundreds at him for his time, his materials and his gas. He sighed and thanked me profusely. I also talked Jake into keeping the change from the purchase of the TV. He grinned like a tiger shark and didn't refuse it.

 _*Oh pshaw!*_

The pain in my leg still niggled at me, but I was working on my third beer, chomping on Doritos, (the fiery kind) and watching some screechy, angry girlie show whose players hid their faces under thick layers of war paint and screamed obscenities at each other. But I was intrigued. The faces on that huge screen were just as big as mine!

Every one of those cheap, over-age women reminded me of the "Babe" I'd met over a year ago in Lexington … at the "Howling Wolf Motel" …

I spent the entire night on that exquisitely comfortable, toasty warm sofa. The only time I left it was to go take a leak.

The Sylvester House apartment was becoming my home.

I mailed the check the following day.

Who knew?

352


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter 54

"Shit or Get Off the Pot!

THE YEAR 2016 ENDED ON A CALM NOTE.

MY GOD … I'VE BEEN HERE OVER A YEAR! I KEEP HOLDING OFF MAKING A DECISION ABOUT MY LEG. DON'T KNOW WHY. ED KEEPS ASKING AND I KEEP MAKING EXCUSES. THAT IT HURTS CONSTANTLY DOESN'T MATTER.

YES IT DOES. THE THOUGHT OF LOSING IT SENDS SHIVERS OF COLD APPREHENSION DOWN MY SPINE. SO I GUESS "SCARED TO DEATH" IS AS GOOD A REASON AS ANY. IT'S ALSO THE TRUTH.

I WORK FOR ED THOREAU NOW: MONDAYS, WEDNESDAYS AND FRIDAYS. HE INSISTS I RIDE THE WHEELCHAIR WHEN I'M SEEING PATIENTS, BECAUSE HE DOESN'T WANT ME TO GET KNOCKED OFF MY SHAKY FOUNDATION BY SOMEONE IN PAIN … OR ANGRY AS HELL AND LASHING OUT … OR JUST SOMEONE WHO IS BUSY AND DISTRACTED, OR SIMPLY NOT WATCHING WHERE THEY'RE GOING. I CAN UNDERSTAND ED'S REASONING AND I DO AS HE ASKS. IT IS GOOD TO BE MAKING A CONTRIBUTION AGAIN. BETTER THAN SITTING AROUND ON MY ASS AT HOME.

JOE GARRETT SEES ME ONCE A WEEK, MAINLY TO KEEP AN EYE ON THE STATUS OF MY LEG, AND TO DO THE ONGOING TESTS NECESSARY FOR TRANSITION TO THE BIO-ELECTRONIC PROSTHEIS COMPONENTS. HE IS STILL WORKING ON THEM. THOSE THINGS ARE FITTED PRECISELY AND METICUOUSLY ADJUSTED WITH AS MUCH SKILL AND CARE AS A NASA TECHNICIAN WOULD INSERT COMPONENT MODULES INTO A ROCKET ENGINE. THEY'RE ALSO AS DIVERGENT AS THE INDIVIDUALS THEY SERVE, AND JUST AS EXOTIC. HE KNOWS IT WON'T BE MUCH LONGER BEFORE SOMETHING DEFINITE HAS TO BE DONE ABOUT SCHEDULING MY SURGERY, AND I CAN'T PUT HIM OFF FOREVER. HE KNOWS I'M SCARED SHITLESS … AND HE 'GETS' IT. HE HASN'T BUGGED ME ABOUT IT THAT MUCH YET, BUT I KNOW HE WILL. TIME IS GETTING SHORT.

ED AND ERNIE STAND PATIENTLY BY AND TAKE THEIR CUES FROM JOE. I HAVE TO GET MY ACT TOGETHER … JUST NOT YET …

THE TRUTH I NEVER TALK ABOUT … I'M WAITING FOR WILSON.

A new president will take over the White House in a couple of weeks, and the town is all abuzz about it. I stay away from speculation as much as possible. It makes no difference to me who the next Bigwig in the Oval Office is. We always manage to muddle our way through, no matter which bullshitter gets to sit in the catbird seat.

And so it goes. I'm pretty much settled in. The apartment works for me very well. Lots of room to maneuver the crutches and the wheelchair. I'm not a half bad cook, and I've whipped up some pretty good stuff on the little apartment-size stove. Once in awhile I invite Jake and Vern over for supper, and somebody will call Bill Perry to see if he wants to play poker. Some of those nights get pretty wild with the competition between the four of us and the quick way we can destroy a case of beer and a couple of large pizzas with 'everything'.

I think about Wilson a lot … where he is, how he's doing, who he's 'getting it on' with. I have to chuckle about that. He's had more crappy luck with women than anyone I know … and it's his own damn fault. He just needs to find the right hooker, I think …

Me? I found a local cat house in one of the small towns close by, (whose name shall go without mention, just like the 'Scottish Play'.) Anyhow, I've gone over there a few times when I can convince my leg to allow me a small dalliance …

It's all good. I'm not quite the man I used to be. Sad to say, but true.

The week between Christmas and New Year's we had six straight days of virtual standstill in Etna. It began to snow on Christmas night about midnight, and by morning there was a ten-inch accumulation, and the snow didn't stop. By that evening there was twelve inches of white stuff covering the entire town. Snow plows and cinder trucks trundled up and down the streets all day, every day, but barely kept up with it. Every time they cleared a path, the snow would start again. It blew up onto my front porch and I couldn't even get the damned door open. I was glad I didn't need to go anywhere. No way could I get to my car to go to work.

I snuggled on my fancy leather couch armed with a thermos of coffee … (laced with brandy … yummy!) and a blanket, and propped myself on the handsome tapestry pillows that came with it. I spent a lot of time watching an NCIS marathon on the USA channel, and a Blue Bloods marathon on ION. That's a cool damn TV … and Mark Harmon and Tom Selleck are larger than life. (Of course Cote DiPablo and Emily Wickersham and Bridget Moynahan look pretty damn good too.)

For the next three days it snowed almost continuously, and I was very glad I'd stocked up on groceries. There's a place in Lebanon that offers delivery service for "people like me" (ha ha) and I began to take advantage of it about once a week. So I was fed and medicated and entertained. I ignored the hell out of the snow.

I found out that two of the other three tenants in the Sylvester House used the store's service also, so the three of us got our heads together one day and decided to pool our resources. Everybody would order in at the same time. Handy for us; convenient for the store owners. I got to know the tenants … and we _all_ ignored the hell out of the snow.

Chauncy (upstairs, rear) told me that he had dealt with the store for years. Eleanor next door to him, said she had too. Chauncy is older than me, and so is Eleanor. I've never asked them, but I'd say they're both in their seventies. Chauncy's bald as Mr. Clean, wears thick glasses, and walks with two arm canes. He told me he was on a reconnaissance mission with four team members in the La Drang Valley in Nam. They walked into a VC Sapper ambush and he was the only one who survived. He was reluctant to say more than that, and I didn't push. I knew exactly how he felt.

Eleanor (upstairs, front) has Parkinson's Disease, and it's difficult for her to get around because of the tremors. Her daughter visits most days and helps with household stuff. Eleanor looks like a shriveled Bette Davis, but has a great sense of humor.

They asked about my leg, and I just said: "blood clot, embolism, muscle death …" all that shit. They made sympathetic faces, hissed through their teeth and didn't ask again. We totally understand about each other's hangups.

Mildred, who lives in the other ground-floor apartment, is a recluse who opens her door to no one except her Rabbi … and we respect that and leave her alone. She is in her nineties …

The weather finally cleared on New Years' Day. The sun came out and the streets were finally cleared. You couldn't see most of the houses along the street because the plowed snow hid them from view. Wow! Winter in New England. Jake and Vern and Jerry came over to shovel me out that night, and I began to feel a little less like a shut-in. I could walk around in my apartment without having to keep all the lights on. We were just lucky there were no power outages to throw us completely into the dark.

Working at the hospital got easier after the weather warmed up.

New Hampshire is absolutely beautiful in the winter. Sometimes when the roads were clear, I would get into the Dynasty and just drive somewhere to get out of the apartment and breathe the cold winter air. One Saturday I drove along Route Four, crossed over U.S. 93 and went all the way to Laconia … the longest drive I'd attempted since I came here. I stayed overnight at a Hampton Inn and ate like a king in their dining room overlooking snowy mountains and a mirrored lake that somehow reminded me of the years we spent in Japan when Dad was stationed there.

Now it's almost a year later; early autumn again.

My work at DHMC is challenging and rewarding. I stop by Ed's office on the third floor to check on the day's schedule, and if nothing is particularly pressing, I go on back to the lab where Joe and Ernie are usually working with at least two or three amputees … some of them being prepped for the new biotechnical apparatus; some not.

Sometimes I do X-rays, run the MRI and CT Scanning equipment. Sometimes I will get called to the Nephrology lab to oversee a patient there, or I'll be paged to consult on a difficult case or diagnose and offer input among a group of doctors who conduct what they call a "diagnostic huddle". These people come together in The Garage to read case histories, look at scans or X–rays, peruse charts, and sometimes consult with the patients themselves. Sometimes the discussions get lively and loud, and often end up with the correct diagnosis, simply by bouncing theories and symptoms off each other and running tests until the correct approach seems to jump out and hit us over the head. I had never done it that way before, and it struck me as amazing that these sessions were not only good for a rapid and accurate diagnosis, but a good learning experience as well.

I immersed myself in the medicine and the discussions with enthusiasm, and I think that my disability may have tamed down during this time. At first the others treated me with kid gloves … everyone around me by now was well aware of my history, and my probable prognosis. Some of the younger ones were deathly afraid of hurting me; afraid of upsetting me or doing something that would worsen my pain. The wheelchair and elevated foot-on-the-pillow inevitably became some kind of clarion call that made me a pariah and untouchable; to be protected and kept away from harm.

Until the first time I blew my goddamned top and told them in no uncertain terms that I was not made of Ivory or bisque or bone China, and I would not break into a thousand pieces if someone spoke too loud in my presence. By then I was yelling my head off and shaking a fist in their startled faces.

That was the last time I was treated like a cripple. After that they all tried to out-yell me. No one ever did …

The word got around the hospital that you didn't mess with Doc Calloway. ("He's not as fragile as he looks!") Music to my ears.

During that time I received word that the Cuddy house had been repaired and someone from Delaware had bought it. No word of Cuddy or her whereabouts, and I was too busy to care.

Not long after that, I was finding out that most everyone on the staff knew who I was, and I was earning a 'reputation'.

But let me caution you: I was no longer the bastard that Gregory House used to be. I found that I was able to make friends hand-over-fist, and I liked it. A lot. Actually I was becoming the happiest horse in the race, and for the umpteenth time I decided I had made the right choice in selecting New Hampshire as my home.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Lily and I struck up a rather unique and beneficial deal that would be helpful to both of us. We were sitting in the restaurant of the Watson Inn one Saturday morning after breakfast, and we were doing some whining and complaining about the things we had to do that were just a product of life, but also a pain in the butt.

My pet peeve was housework. Very difficult to do from a wheelchair or crutches. I lost things, dropped things, knocked things over, and inevitably made more work for myself than I actually made cleaner or neater or put away in the same place every time. Changing and remaking my bed always turned into a complicated nightmare. (Or a disaster of gargantuan proportions.)

Lilly giggled sympathetically at my bitching and whining, but she also understood when I complained that most of the time I seemed to get in my own way. She said she felt exactly the same when she had to do the monotonous chore of chopping vegetables and salad ingredients for the week's menu. She was so short that getting on and off the high stool in front of the prep counter became a physical burden. Her arms were also short, and many of the vegetables were round, and skittered away from her on the butcher block. She always ended up more tired and sore from getting them into containers to keep them handy, than actually chopping them.

I think we both had the same idea at the same time. She looked at me and I looked at her, and we both laughed our heads off. So I offered to peel and cut and chop vegetables for her in the restaurant kitchen in exchange for her assistance with bed making and dusting and mopping at my place. Once a week ought to lighten the load for both of us.

That's the way we did it. Saturday mornings I go over to the Watson Inn and report to the kitchen. Happily, I sit on the big stool in front of the butcher block, prop up my leg and chop what needs to be chopped … or peeled or diced or minced or sliced, and shoot the shit with the kitchen staff and catch up with town gossip whether I want to hear it or not … and Lily's most hated chore gets done with dispatch.

And Lily Chamberlin … all four-feet-ten of her … crosses the street to my place. She wipes down the kitchen, unloads the dishwasher, mops the floor, dusts the furniture, and … oh glory … makes my bed and does my wash with the expertise of a cadet in basic training; squared corners and everything. Once in a while she bakes me a cake, or bakes cookies, and I am in heaven for _days._ But the thing is: it works! For both of us.

Cold weather is making its way into the air again. Another winter approaches, and inevitably I see the street crews climbing around on ladder trucks, putting up Christmas decorations. It hasn't snowed yet, but it will. Soon.

I almost forgot to say … the town of Etna has done something so nice that it almost brought tears to my eyes. Yeah me … old hardass Greg. I didn't know what to say at first.

There came a knock on my door, late on a Friday afternoon in September. I was in the recliner, laid back, heat on full. My leg and foot had been especially painful all day at work, and I found myself cramping to the point that I was throwing back too many pills and afraid I might be heading for a bout of breakthrough pain. The wheelchair stood beside the chair because I didn't trust myself to the crutches.

When the knock came, it startled me. I'd been dozing. "It's open. Come on in …" (I seldom locked the door when I was home in the daytime.)

It was Lewis Harbauch, the town supervisor, a man I'd had only a passing acquaintance with. He stood awkwardly in front of me with hat in hand … an old fashioned courtesy. "Dr. Calloway, I'd like to talk to you about the place where you park your car out back …"

I thought, _*Uh oh … are they going to make me move it?*_ I gawked at him, uncomprehending. "Is there something wrong?"

"Oh no … but at the council meeting the other night …" He hesitated to the point that I wondered what the hell he was getting at.

"Yes?" I buzzed the chair up to sitting position and stared at him.

"Well, with your permission, we'd like to build you a parking space right outside your front door. We agreed that since you don't have garage space of your own, it would be far safer for you if you didn't have to walk all the way down to your car in ice and snow … since you use crutches or a wheelchair every day. Is that all right with you? The work will take two days at most, and it won't obstruct the sidewalk. Are you all right with that? We got a variance, and it's good to go. We can start on Tuesday …"

My mouth was hanging open. "Seriously? You would do that for me?"

"Yes sir. The boys at the hotel tell me they'll keep the walks shoveled, like they've been doing. No one wants to see you get hurt … and you seem to be the only one who drives anymore."

I shifted from the recliner to the wheelchair and looked up to face him. "Jeez, Lewis, this is great. I don't know what to say … Last year was pretty difficult getting my car in and out. Of course you have my permission. You have my undying appreciation."

He nodded. "My pleasure." He then bowed awkwardly and turned and left.

And now I have this great parking space on the street, about ten feet from my front door. Wow! Etna is almost like living in Disneyland. In the spring I should check to see what's in the garages …

It's November. Getting on toward Thanksgiving. The Christmas decorations around town are up. Thanksgiving night they'll turn 'em on.

Today I made a decision.

When I go to work Monday morning, I'm going to tell Joe that it's time. I've been experiencing a lot of pain. Too much to endure any longer. I have fought like a madman to keep a diseased leg that is no longer viable in any sense of the word. I'm not gaining anything by keeping it, and Wilson has not showed up. The surgical team has been more than patient with me. No one has bugged me to make a decision one way or the other, and I think I owe them more than half-assed promises and vague excuses. They know how scared I am, and they realize that my fear is based on that odd assumption that I will be less of a man if one of my body parts goes noticeably missing. I know it's crap, but I can't help it.

It is time to fish or cut bait … shit or get off the pot.

"Shit" it is! The leg goes. The sooner the better.

Now I have to tell them.

Convince them I mean business.

God, how I wish Wilson was here … I need him, but he has not picked up on the clues …

358


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter 55

"Santa Claus is Coming … Etc, Etc, Etc"

I WAS ALMOST EXUBERANT AS I DROVE AWAY FROM WHITEFACE MOUNTAIN INN. I SAID MY GOODBYES TO GYPSY AND BUSTER AND MARLENE.

"I FOUND HIM!" I GUSHED TO GYPSY AS I HURRIED TO THE REGISTRATION DESK WHERE SHE AND MARLENE WERE WORKING. "I FOUND HIM ON LINE … JUST AWHILE AGO. YOU WERE RIGHT. YOU WERE _SO_ RIGHT … AND I THANK YOU. HE'S IN NEW HAMPSHIRE. AND HERE I AM IN NEW YORK. I HAVE TO LEAVE. IT'S BEEN TOO LONG. I'VE GOTTA GO …"

"JIMMY, THAT'S WONDERFUL. I'M SO GLAD." GYPSY CAME AROUND THE CORNER AND THREW HER THIN ARMS AROUND MY SHOULDERS. "WISH YOU WELL, MY DEAR. IT'S BEEN A REAL PLEASURE KNOWING YOU … AND YOU DRIVE CAREFUL, YOU HEAR? IT'S DECEMBER AND YOU MIGHT RUN INTO SOME ROUGH WEATHER BEFORE YOU'RE THROUGH."

SHE KISSED MY CHEEK AND I TURNED RED AGAIN.

I WAS GRINNING … NODDING … EYES WET … NERVES JANGLING. I NODDED ACROSS TO MARLENE WITH SHAMEFACED GLEE AS I TURNED TO GO BACK TO MY ROOM TO PACK. I WAS ONLY VAGUELY AWARE THAT SHE WAS STARING AT HER SMILING MOTHER AS THOUGH THE WOMAN HAD SUDDENLY GROWN ANOTHER HEAD.

IT QUICKLY DAWNED ON ME THAT GYPSY PROBABLY HADN'T TOLD HER DAUGHTER ABOUT OUR EARLIER CONVERSATION. SHE'D KEPT HER LIPS ZIPPED AND HADN'T SPLLED A WORD TO ANYONE. WHAT A WOMAN!

QUITE THE OPPOSITE OF POOR PATHETIC PATTI GRESH.

"SNEAKERS" WAS SNEAKING OUT OF TOWN AGAIN … BUT THIS TIME I WAS RUNNING TOWARD SOMETHING, NOT RUNNING AWAY FROM SOMETHING. I HOPED DESPERATELY FOR SOME KIND OF HAPPY REUNION. BUT I WASN'T HOLDING MY BREATH …

I pointed Vanna's nose toward the north, then followed the road as it curved east on Route 4 near Whitehall and widened into an expressway. Suddenly I was on my way to an unfamiliar destination that could easily make or break me. There would be no second guessing; no more nightmares with imagined tragic endings, or bone-chilling dream scenarios in which I was turned away by the angry dismissal of an elegant, long-fingered hand.

Somewhere in the small town of Etna, in the tiny state of New Hampshire, I would find destiny or oblivion. In that little town of 850 souls resided the one person with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.

He was a friend first. This time I would be a friend in return, not a judgmental know-it-all.

I wanted my best friend back.

I wanted to see for myself the reality of the cookie-cutter creature known as 'Kyle Calloway', and watch for evidence of some of the statements he'd made in that JAMA article. Was it based on his actual experience? Or was he speaking only as a Nephrologist and Diagnostician?

I had to know.

It took some time to get settled into this last leg of my journey, and try to calm myself down. Inside my head, I had often anticipated the day I would find him; and what I would say when we finally met face-to-face. Where would our lives go from there? Where _could_ they go? Now, that day was imminent, and I was not so prepared after all … and scared to death that he might not be all right.

My cold shaking hands gripped the steering wheel like I was trying to choke it to death. My teeth chattered in nervous excitement like castanets in a Mariachi band. I was jittery all over. Bursting with anticipation and trepidation and adrenalin and worry and fear.

Inundated with "what-ifs" …

What-if his physical condition had deteriorated since the last time I'd seen him; the day he walked away from me in front of Lisa Cuddy's ruined house … limping … bloody blue jeans hard to miss … ?

What-if his stubborn pride led him to ignore the effects of self-surgery in his own bathtub, and the patchwork surgery, switching back to his cane instead of remaining on crutches … tearing the fresh, hours-old stitches?

What-if he had never consulted another doctor about the condition of his leg after that _third_ surgery? (The stubborn bastard …) Surely he wouldn't attempt to administer to the wound himself. Would he?

What-if everything that was suddenly nagging at me was true, plus more; like the addition of another five years onto his age? How could he have endured more years of excruciating pain without drastic measures having been taken? Did he still _have_ his leg? Or had he become a bitter amputee who hid from the world? Had the 'Kyle Calloway' alias really been a means to lure me, as I'd so egotistically assumed? Or was it his sole means of communication with the outside world from some hidey hole of his own making? He would soon be sixty years old.

I knew that because I was nearing fifty …

I had no way of knowing the answers to any of these questions until I actually saw him in the flesh.

I turned the radio up and barreled along the interstate …

I stopped for gas and an oil check near Woodstock, very close to Bethel, New York, where the historic Woodstock Festival had been held in a farmer's hayfield in 1969. Jimi Hendrix had stood on the stage and performed all night long that last night.

I remembered reading about the concert's closing on the morning of August 18 by Chip Monck: "Good wishes, good day and a good life …"

And then the music stopped and the crowds dispersed … and Woodstock was history.

The legendary Roy Rogers had been invited to close the festivities. But Roy backed out, saying: "I'd have been booed off the stage by all those goddamn hippies …" So he and Dale and Pat Brady went to headline the Bloomsburg Fair in Pennsylvania instead … a place where even Trigger and Nellybelle would be welcomed with open arms …

I smiled at the conglomeration of thoughts milling around in my head as I pumped gas and checked Vanna's oil. Back in August of 1969 when Woodstock took place, I had been about seven months old.

My, how time flies!

I stayed the night at a Comfort Inn at Killington Center, Vermont, near the Ottauquechee River. It was 7:00 p.m. and way past dark when I checked in. At this hour on a December evening, it was black as midnight and biting cold. There were Christmas lights glittering on lamp posts up and down the streets, and a few houses were decorated with bright red and green and white. It made me a little homesick … but for where? I was kind of homeless at the moment.

Actually, I was homesick for a "Who" … not a "Where" …

I checked in, and after taking my carryall to my room, I returned to their small pub-like café and ordered a cup of hot chocolate and a slice of carrot cake. I was more tired than hungry, and it didn't take me long to finish and return to my room for a hot shower and a soft bed.

The shower felt good on sore, road-weary muscles. The bed was clean and the sheets were sweet-smelling. I closed the venetian blinds on the Christmas decorations and after some tossing and turning and residual thoughts of Gregory House and 'Kyle Calloway', I finally dropped off to sleep.

Early the next morning I was up and packed, turned in my room key, loaded the carryall into the car, and returned for breakfast in the little café. On my way back across the lobby I paused to walk over to a large laminated map of Vermont that hung on the wall at the other end of the room. I traced my finger along Route 4 into New Hampshire and was half surprised to note that I was only about ninety miles from Lebanon … which was about six miles from Etna.

I could very easily get there today, maybe sometime in the early evening. I would have to keep a tight rein on my enthusiasm and anticipation, and not go barreling into town like the Charge of the Light Brigade. I had no idea what House's status might be in the town of Etna. Was he still such a hardass? Insulting people right and left? Was he able to practice his profession … perhaps at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center? Or did his health prevent him from anything except acting the hermit; isolated and alone with only bitter memories for company?

Maybe, I reasoned, he had finally found a place to call home. Maybe his leg had finally healed to the point that he was ambulatory again, had his own practice, had a few people he spent time with … maybe even a woman to love. Maybe he kept his temper under control, so that if not pleasant, then at least tolerable to the point where people would talk to him … laugh with him … call him "friend" …

I had more unanswered questions than Heinz had pickles. I would have to proceed very carefully when asking anyone around there of his whereabouts.

I ate breakfast and went back to the car. Started it up and looked to the east to Route 4, deeper into Vermont. The weather was still bitter cold. There were snow flurries swirling in descending circles on the road ahead. Would it lay? Who knew? I turned on the headlights, the heater and the radio and proceeded cautiously.

By noon I was halfway to the New Hampshire border. The snow flurries had petered out. I saw billboards here and there, advertising businesses … mostly car dealerships … in New Hampshire towns I'd never heard of. Knowing I was so close to my anticipated goal, I could feel my insides clenching, and a roar in my ears that told me I was scared to death and imagining all sorts of frightening scenarios at seeing this man again after so many years. I even began to feel an uncomfortable urge to turn around and hurry back the way I had come.

Why in hell, after all this time, would Gregory House even want to see me? The 'Kyle Calloway' thing was probably nothing more than an alias he was using in order to keep the notoriety of his real name from reaching someone who knew him and wanted to have words with him … or sue him …

I told myself I was a fool for thinking this kind of stupid stuff and … **cut it out, Wilson!**

I crossed the Connecticut River at 6:30 p.m., and the road turned an abrupt right into New Hampshire. I was entering the outskirts of West Lebanon.

I swallowed hard and pulled over onto the right berm of the road. I laid both arms across the top of the steering wheel and stared out at the bleak dark countryside, pine tree silhouettes and black sky; moon and stars the only break in the monochromatic surroundings. Not much different than New Jersey at the onset of winter. Just a hell of a lot colder. The road had narrowed to two lanes here, and the lettering on a metal arrow just ahead reflected in the headlights: "Lebanon – 1 mi." I could make out the glow of bright lights in the distance.

 _*I'm here …*_

House's essence was so close now that my memory recalled the scent of cigars and Scotch and pungent sandalwood to my nostrils. His was the look of old wool and worn denim and unironed sport shirts; the taste of Reubens (plain, no pickles), red lollipops, ice cream sandwiches and strong coffee in paper cups … and the ubiquitous cane. I felt a smile ghosting across my face.

I pulled back onto the road after a while, and drove slowly into the city of Lebanon. To my right stood the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center. I slowed down and stared at it. Large campus, some outlying specialty buildings, and the main structure. White. Lots of glass. Bright lights all around. Cars parked all over. It looked busy, even in the evening. There were people about; all bundled up like local Eskimos. Did House work here? Was he under treatment here? Maybe both … or neither …

I took my time going through town. There were Christmas decorations all over the place. Otherwise, it looked exactly like every other midsize town I'd been in before.

I began counting the businesses lining the busy main street: Wal-Mart. Toyota dealership. TJ Maxx. Lowe's. Ford dealership. KFC. Pet Smart. GM car dealership. Arby's. McDonald's. Dunkin' Dounuts. Dodge-Chrysler dealership, Home Depot, Kohl's. You get the drift. The area must be doing well economically, judging from the automobile dealerships lined up block-by-block all along the main drag. And the bright Christmas decorations taking a back seat to the multi-colored neon lights aglow with colorful advertising.

I continued along the road and out of town on the other side and was met with a diminishing number of residences. It was rural now, huge old houses with barns, here and there a newer structure breaking up the landscape. I passed a gas station that was attached to a little general store and small diner, but it was mostly deserted. Two pickup trucks in front. There were lights on, but not much movement inside. At least, not customers. I went on for a couple more miles, and then the houses began to pop up closer together again.

And I was in Etna. Not a town; more like a village. It stretched out for a few blocks as I drove through, and then went back to being rural again. I turned around and drove back the way I had come. It was 7:15 p.m. and pitch dark except for a short line of street lights … all strung with small-town Christmas decorations dancing in the wind. I could have sworn it looked closer to midnight. Not a car was on the streets, nor pedestrians on the sidewalks.

Exactly halfway in, I passed a drugstore on the left and in the next block a fairly large hotel on the right. I knew the hotel was called "The Watson Inn", because I had looked it up. It was brick, well kept, had three floors and an alley out back. Across the street from it was a huge dark … (I knew it was painted brown because I looked that up too) … apartment building. If my information was correct, Gregory House, alias "Kyle Calloway", lived there.

The Volkswagen's transmission geared down as I turned onto the lot of the hotel and pulled into a space facing the apartment across the street. There were lights on in one of the units I could see from here. Upstairs. It was dark at House's place, the downstairs one that faced the street. I turned off the ignition and sat there. Staring. Shivering.

House was very close now. I could almost feel his aura reaching outward. In front of the apartment stood a car, dimly illuminated by a street light on the corner. Squarish. Dark paint. Dirty with road grime. Hard to tell the make in the dark.

It was a 1989 Dodge Dynasty. Oh yeah. It was wearing New Hampshire handicap license plates.

House had dug in.

 _*Well hello, you old junkheap … long time, no see. Have you been behaving yourself? It sure is good to see you. You're proof positive that he's still able to drive. What else is he still able to do? Do you take good care of him when he's with you?_

 _*You'd better, by damn …_

 _*'Cause Santa Claus has just come to town …*_

364


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter 56

"The Gift of Thanks from UPS"

MID-DECEMBER:

EIGHT O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.

I'M AWAKE … NOT 'UP'.

TODAY, 'UP' IS THE LAST THING I WANT TO BE.

IT'S BITTER COLD OUTSIDE AND THE FURNACE HAS BEEN RUNNING CONSTANTLY FOR DAYS. THE SUN IS BARELY VISIBLE, AND I KEPT STARING AT THE BEDROOM WINDOW AND THE FROST THAT'S BEEN FORMING PATTERNS ON THE GLASS. IT HASN'T SNOWED YET, BUT IT SURE IS MISERABLE ENOUGH TO LET GO ANY MINUTE.

I NEEDED TO GET MOVING BECAUSE MY BONES FELT AS FROZEN IN PLACE AS THE LAMP POST ON THE STREET CORNER. THE OLD STEREO ACROSS THE ROOM WAS PLAYING A SELECTION FROM BACH THAT MADE ME LIE HERE AND JUST ABSORB THE MUSIC LIKE COTTON ABSORBS WATER. IT'S ONE OF BACH'S MORE OBSCURE WORKS, AND I CAN'T QUITE PUT A NAME TO IT. IT HOLDS ME IN THRALL AS THOUGH TO MISS A SINGLE PASSAGE WOULD BE AN UNFORGIVABLE SIN. IT'S PART OF A CONCERTO IN D MINOR, I THINK, BECAUSE I COULD HEAR THE OBOE WAILING … OH WELL, DOESN'T MATTER. IT'S A BEAUTIFUL WORK. I LAY STILL UNTIL IT WAS FINISHED, THEN REACHED FOR THE REMOTE AND TURNED IT OFF.

THE RED NUMBERS OF THE CLOCK ON MY DRESSER KEEP MOVING TOWARD NINE …

I SIGHED AND ROLLED THE BEDCOVERS BACK ... MY LEG HURTS …

Eventually I pushed myself up and hunched my shoulders to get the nighttime kinks out. I'm slowly getting the knack of maneuvering a heavy winter sock onto my right foot without torturing myself in the process; the foot is always cold … so I did that gingerly, and pulled another sock and sneaker onto the left one. Gray sweatsuit; the one I wore to bed, will be my uniform of the day. Easy Peasy.

I wish, just once, I would wake up and not hurt.

My leg kept cramping and waking me up all night long, and I was afraid to try to go to work. I called Joe Garrett and told him I was having problems. There was a significant silence on the line for a few moments, and then he asked if I needed him to come over. I said it wasn't necessary; I'd just take it easy today and keep my leg propped up. He didn't hassle me. It wouldn't get him anywhere. By now he knows what a stubborn S.O.B. I can be.

I've been holding him off by admitting that I knew the leg had to come off eventually, and I was seriously thinking about having the team schedule the surgery. That shut him up temporarily, but I know that if I don't soon make the decision he'll be back riding my ass again.

That's why I felt justified in taking the day off to baby myself and do absolutely nothing I don't want to do.

What I _do_ want to do is get back under the covers and catch up on my sleep …

… but instead I would begin my day with a pot of coffee and a couple of English muffins slathered with butter and Strawberry jam.

I peppered the air with a string of colorful curse words and shifted across to my wheelchair. I jammed the crutches into the holder in back. I pulled the bedcovers up and pronounced the bed: 'made'.

I took myself to the john and let the floodgates open, after which I remembered to wash my hands with anti-bacterial soap … like a good boy.

I was settled on the sofa, leg resting uncomfortably on one of the pillows. My coffee mug and the second muffin sat on a small side table next to me. I had just taken a Vicodin with an Immatrax chaser, and turned on the TV. I was ready to spend the day channel-surfing and fooling around with the 'Premium Channels' … whatever they called them nowadays … anything to occupy my mind with something besides my leg. I eyed the second muffin and the last half of the coffee, and I was about to delve into the goodies offered by HBO and Cinemax.

Somebody chose that moment to stomp across the porch and knock on the front door. If it was Joe Garrett checking up on me, I would ream him a new you-know-what!

"Who is it?" I stuffed half the last muffin into my face, muted the TV and set the coffee mug down.

"UPS," said the voice on the other side of the door. "I have a delivery for Kyle Calloway …"

 _*What the hell … ?*_

"Hold your horses. I'm coming." I swallowed the lump of muffin, grabbed the crutches off the wheelchair and eased my foot off the cushion, which immediately caused my leg to clench up tight. Gingerly, I got myself to an upright position, searching for balance and ouching under my breath. I pushed the wheelchair out of the way across the room and slowly maneuvered to the door … which I opened to face a brown young man in a brown winter uniform beneath a heavy brown coat. He held a clipboard and a ball-point pen with a gold UPS logo …

The kid stood with the clipboard, pen poised … until he saw the crutches and the dour expression on my face. "Geez, sir, I didn't mean to …"

I cut him off with a wave of my hand. "Finish apologizing inside, kid. It's too damn cold out there to hang around with the door open." I hopped a step back to let him enter, which he did, and he also closed the door behind him, still looking apologetic.

"This apartment rents only to people with disabilities, as you can see," I continued. "You don't have to apologize for that … it's not your fault that I fit the description the sign warned you about. Now what is it you want? I didn't order anything that I can remember, so why is UPS knocking at my door?"

He stared at me like a deer in the headlights, quickly processing everything, including my attitude and the configuration of the apartment, and what the hell he might say to me in response that wouldn't make me angrier than he took me to be. What he finally said was something I least expected: "Wow, man, this is a cool place! Been looking around for something like this where I live, but they're really expensive … unhhh … sorry." He closed his mouth, raised his eyebrows and stared at me in chagrin. I was a little shaky on my feet (foot), and he wasn't sure if I needed help to sit down … or what.

I didn't want to smile. Didn't want to laugh. My leg hurt like a bitch, and all I wanted to do was get rid of this kid and hit the sofa again. But he had got to me. He reminded me of Wilson when I'd had enough of his damn lectures and lit into him like a Dutch uncle. I raised an eyebrow in return and shrugged. "Just tell me about the thing you're delivering, and maybe I can figure out what it is."

"Thanks, Mr. Calloway … you _are_ Mr. Calloway, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm Mr. Calloway. Who are you?"

His large dark eyes widened over the fact that I would even want to know. "Ben," he said. "Ben Burgess at your service. And honest, I don't know what it is. It's a big honkin' wooden crate, and the sticker on the front of it says it came from the island of Barbados …"

This time it was my eyes that widened.

 _*What the hell … ?*_ (Again.)

But then, immediately, I knew. After all this time …

Suddenly I was grinning. Leg pain pushed to the background; the distraction I'd wished for for twenty four hours.

Ben brought the crate inside, riding high on a two-wheel dolly. I signed the papers he held out to me, and when he handed me a copy and made ready to leave, I palmed him a twenty in return and thanked him for his service. He grinned and winked and wished me well. I knew he, and others like him, had a rigid schedule to maintain, or I'd have asked him to help me break open the box.

After he left I switched back to the wheelchair and rubbed at my leg until it began to simmer down again. I then rolled out to the kitchen for a claw hammer. When I got back, I found that the fasteners that held the front of the box in place came off easily when I placed the claw end of the hammer behind them and yanked carefully.

The front of the box came off and I lifted it away to set it aside. Layers of heavy kapok packing fell out on the floor and revealed what I already knew I would see. The beautiful old Zenith floor model radio from the 1940s that had given me so many pleasurable hours on Barbados, stood before me; its huge dark 'eye' peeking out at me with an electronic smugness that almost made me laugh. It also made my eyes sting like hell.

 _*Hooley Puli … I wondered what became of you. Thanks! I love you, man …*_

I propped on the sofa again, babying my leg. Getting the radio out of its packing crate was impossible for me to accomplish alone. If I didn't end up damaging it by trying to work from a wheelchair, then I would probably damage myself by exerting the same effort. Since I didn't want to ruin anything on the old instrument, I let it stand in the middle of the floor with only the front panel visible. Sighing with impatience, I leaned back to channel surf the TV again until I could recruit a willing helper.

At a little past one o'clock, when I knew lunch hour was over at the Watson Inn, I called the front desk to talk to Vern or Jake or Jerry … whoever was on duty. A very deep voice answered politely: Vern at his most professional. I almost laughed in his ear. "Hey Vern …"

"Hi Kyle. Everything all right? It's unusual for you to call here in the middle of the day."

"I took the day off," I said lightly. (None of his business, and I didn't want to sound whiny.) "There's a big wooden crate standing in the middle of my living room. UPS dropped it off this morning. It has an antique floor-model radio in it, and I'm in no position to try to get it out. When somebody has some free time, I'd sure appreciate a hand getting the thing unpacked."

"Sure, Kyle," Vern said. "No problem. Lily and the kids are finishing up in the kitchen. I can't leave the desk right now. This place is like a funeral parlor over here, but about the time I take a break, someone will want a room or a sandwich or a seven-course meal. Jake should be able to tear loose in about a half hour, if that's okay with you. Are you all right? Your voice sounds a little shaky …"

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling with a roll of my eyes. I couldn't make a move without somebody asking questions … well-meaning, but infuriating. "I'm fine, Vern. Honest. I wish you guys wouldn't worry about me. I'll leave the front door unlocked. Whoever comes over, tell him to come on in. I'll be on the sofa fooling with the TV …"

"Okay Kyle … if you say so. I'll tell whoever comes out here first to check in with you. Do you need anything?"

"Nope, I'm good. Thanks Vern. Later."

We rang off and I put the phone down on the side table. Picked up the coffee mug.

"Ugh! Jesus!" It was stone cold.

I found a movie on MAX. "The Quartet." Maggie Smith. Billy Connelly. I sat back to watch it; pulled a comforter over my legs and up to my chin. Not my usual fare, but what the hell … everyone knew Maggie Smith was a rare gift from Mt. Olympus …

I woke up when Jake Harvey touched my shoulder. He pointed to the big wooden crate in the middle of my floor. "Kyle? Are you okay? And what the hell _is_ that thing?"

I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, blinking away the sudden wooziness. The movie's credits were rolling.

 _*Shit!*_

"Hi Jake. Must've dropped off for a second."

Of course he didn't believe me. "Yeah, a likely story."

"Dammit, I'm fine. Don't patronize me. I feel sorry for myself enough without everybody else jumping on the bandwagon …" I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.

He raised his hand, palm out, to make me stop talking. "Okay, okay. You're my friend, Kyle … dammit. We keep asking because we care about you. Izzat a crime?"

"No ... sorry. My bad. Never mind. Let's just unpack my 1940 radio, okay? Then we'll talk."

I had him at "radio". He frowned. "That thing's a radio? Must be on steroids. Who would send you an eighty year old radio that takes up all that floor space, when you can get one that fits in your pocket for a couple of bucks?" I'd forgot for a minute how young he was.

"Where the hell did it come from?"

And there it was. **The Question.** I didn't know how it would be worded when it came, but I wasn't surprised. A radio arriving at my doorstep from Barbados begged answers to multiple questions. I knew a reckoning would sneak up and cold-cock me one day, and I'd have to tell some, or all these people, my backstory. In fact the timing was pretty good. Jake was a good friend and I trusted him. I guessed it was time I revealed a few of my dirty little secrets.

"You gotta remember there weren't any TVs around when this thing was made, and even I wasn't born yet. They built 'em fancy and powerful and almost as good as stereo. I'll show you when we get it out of there …"

Jake snorted. "'We?' I will get the radio out of the crate. I will do it very carefully, and I'll hand you the hunks of packaging as I get 'em out. Please, Kyle, stay where you are. I didn't say anything before, but you look like hell, man."

I glared at him, but he didn't glance away as he might have done before. He stood his ground and looked me in the eye. "This thing have anything to do with where you were before you came here?" He was already removing chunks of kapok.

Third question. Damn. He had pegged me smack-dab in the middle of the bull's eye painted on my forehead. He was also right about my physical status. I hurt, and I needed a distraction. I sighed and tilted my head back. Stared at the ceiling for a couple of seconds. It was _time_ …

"Yeah … it does.

"Right after the third surgery on my leg," I began, "I spent a year on the island of Barbados. I thought maybe the rest and the sun and the isolation would help me heal faster. It didn't. Instead, the problem with my leg went downhill from there.

"I met this guy who was a nurse. An APRN … Advanced Practice Registered Nurse, with a Masters' degree. He worked out of a clinic there, and looked after me and treated my leg when I was unable to do it myself, which was most of the time. The thing was, I was angry and bitter and in pain and I didn't listen to anyone unless I felt like it … and I seldom felt like it. I might be walking with a cane now if I'd followed his instructions. But that's on me. Anyway, I lived in a cabin that had electricity supplied by a generator … so no TV, WiFi, or fancy electronics. It powered the fridge, the water pump and the lights. Not much else.

"Hooley … his name was Hooley … brought that radio to the cabin for me. I played the thing night and day. When I left the island, I hated to leave it behind, but it was his. I had only borrowed it.

"While I was away, my Mom and Stepdad both died. Nobody knew where I was, because I never told anybody. So I didn't know.

"My mom kept Dad's pickup truck after he died. It was a big Dodge Ram, and it was more than I could handle. I couldn't even get into it. It was stick shift, so I couldn't drive it either. All Hooley had on the island was a dune buggy that had seen better days, and an old Harley that was even worse. I shipped him the pickup because he could sure use it … he takes care of a lot of patients … mostly retirees.

"This radio, I think, is Hooley's 'thank you' for the truck. He doesn't say much, but he has a big heart.

"That's most of the story. The rest is only details. Nobody from my former life has a clue where I am, and I think I'm okay with that."

Jake worked at the packing crate while listening to my story. "Can't believe you stayed a whole year on a damn desert island. What were you hiding from? Really?"

Oh boy! Another $64,000 question.

"Myself," I said finally. "Back then, nobody wanted to be around me. I was a bastard. I fucked over a lot of people. Patients stopped asking for me, I screamed at anybody who tried to approach me, and after a while even my last friend told me to go to hell. I got in my car and drove it up my girlfriend's driveway and smashed it through her front window and into the dining room … all because she had the nerve to break up with me. I had just gotten out of the hospital after the last leg surgery, and I was a mess. I got on a plane and went all the way to Barbados. Big mistake. Or maybe not. But it made me decide to clean up my act. Hooley was a big influence in getting me to do that.

"I always wanted to live in New England, so when I flew back to the states, here's where I finally landed. I've been trying ever since to make myself over and stop being such an asshole. I guess it's been working okay … because the folks around here seem to think I'm something special. I'm working with people I respect … and very soon I'm going to have something done about my leg. It scares the hell out of me, but I've been seeing an orthopedic team, and I'm waiting for them to set up a date for the surgery. Maybe even before Christmas."

Jake was sitting on the floor with a screwdriver in his hand. He had just removed the last panel from the back of the big Zenith and set it aside. He leaned back against the couch where I sat. His body turned slightly toward me, and his rough-skinned, working-man's hand hefted upward until it met my own, resting across my lap. He squeezed my fingers like he was dreaming that he was shaking hands with Mohamed Ali.

"I don't know what to say, man," he mumbled. His voice had a little waver in it, and dammit, I felt my eyes sting up like a little old lady whose cat had just died. "Thanks for telling me your story. You had a shitty time of it, and I feel real good that you trusted me enough to hear it. And best of all, you're going to let them fix your leg. That's really good news."

He let go of my hand and stood up. Neither of us said much as he gathered the panels and the kapok insulation and set them outside on the porch. He cleaned up the residue on the floor with a broom and dust pan and put it in the trash.

Jake plugged the radio in at the alcove across the room. The dial was set on an English-speaking station from Hong Kong. The song they were playing was "Love Me Tender".

We both sang along.

When Jake left, he asked if he could tell Lily about my upcoming leg surgery …

"Tell anybody you want to. It's not much of a secret anymore.

"Actually, it never was …"

371


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

"Ugly Damn Volkswagen"

 **HOUSE:**

FIVE P. M. AND IT'S DARK AS A WEST VIRGINIA COAL MINE. STREET LIGHTS AND CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ARE THE ONLY SOURCES OF ILLUMINATION IN THE WHOLE DAMN TOWN. LOOKS LIKE NOBODY'S AT HOME ALL ALONG THE BLOCK, BUT THEY'RE PROBABLY HOLED UP AGAINST THE WIND. THE WEATHER CHANNEL REPORTS IT'S ABOUT SEVEN DEGREES OUT THERE. I LOOKED OUT THE FRONT WINDOW A WHILE AGO, AND WAS SURPRISED TO SEE THAT ALL THE PACKING FROM THE OLD RADIO IS GONE FROM THE PORCH. JAKE MUST HAVE COME BACK AND PICKED IT UP WHILE I WAS IN HERE STARING AT THE TV AND CATNAPPING.

I thought about taking a hike across the street for supper, but getting bundled up and fighting the wind on crutches just didn't appeal to me. I got out a small pack of hamburger, an onion, a jar of pasta sauce, and one can each of tomato soup and mushroom soup. Mix 'em together and it makes a good batch of spaghetti sauce that only takes a few minutes. I also put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Spaghetti sounds pretty good in a pinch.

Maybe I'll go across the street for lunch tomorrow. It'll be Saturday, the day I usually trade places with Lily … a week's worth of peeled veggies in exchange for her services as my housekeeper. I wondered briefly whether Jake had told her I was scheduled for amputation. If he did, she would be all over me about it the next time I saw her. My Guardian Angel would be all teary eyed and solicitous when she found out I was going to lose the leg, and I needed to prepare myself for an outpouring of sympathy. Not welcomed, but that was Lily …

I stood at the front window, in the darkened room, looking through the glass at the old hotel across the street and scanning the deserted neighborhood. Tree limbs and Christmas decorations danced a jig in the wind blowing down from the mountains. I could hear the wind whistling around the eaves of the old Sylvester House, and feel the phantom cold that gave me spastic shivers even in this warm environment. So much for the fantasyland of a New England winter. But I had asked for it, and here it was, and it was actually filled with amazing charm.

Lights were bright inside the Watson Inn, and there are a few cars in the parking lot. I suspected most of them belonged to people who wanted a good meal and were used to New Hampshire weather extremes. They already knew Lily Chamberlin's reputation for haute cuisine and impeccable service.

At the front of the lot, facing the street, was a puke-green Volkswagen bug; an old one, from the looks of it. Arc lights glinted off its dingy paint, smeared with salt residue and road dirt. The reflections highlighted one of those ugly clam-shell carryalls attached to the roof. Shadows below made the thing look like an ancient Panzer tank that an angry army had shot off its big-gun muzzle, once mounted in front. It certainly didn't belong anywhere near this neck of the woods. It had traveled a very long distance. I squinted, trying to see the front license plate.

FLORIDA?

 _*Long way from home, aren't you, friend?*_

The front plate, however, wasn't issued by the state of Florida. It was there to fill the empty space created by the absence of a second official license plate. It depicted a large orange with a smiley face painted onto it. At the top, it read "FLORIDA" and beneath: "THE SUNSHINE STATE".

My heart skipped a beat as I continued to stare. The driver of that jitney either didn't know hot from cold, or else … the way every hair on my body was suddenly leaping upward to stand on end … meant that it could be the miracle I'd been longing for …

I grabbed for my glasses and looked again.

 _*That car came all the way up here from Florida! In the dead of winter. Don't tell me that's where the mensch has been hiding out all this time!*_

I remembered Vince Crane telling me years earlier that Wilson had traded his Volvo on a smaller car. He wasn't shittin' … that thing was like trading a grasshopper for a flea …

I scanned the windows on the hotel's second story, looking for illumination indicating someone staying there. Sure enough, there were lights on in the corner room, but turned down. As I stared, I saw movement behind the curtains, as though someone was looking over here as I was looking over there.

Another jolt of static electricity skittered down my spine; re-igniting the pain in my leg and making me list to the side dangerously. My breathing changed momentum and my heartbeat accelerated as I quickly recovered my balance and took a last long look across the street.

I heard the spaghetti water boiling over and spilling onto the burner. I smiled to myself as I lurched to the stove to add the pasta, lower the heat, chop the onion and shred the hamburger into the pan. My hands were shaking and I could feel emotion spilling out of me … just like the pasta water spilling onto the hot surface.

 _*Wilson is here … at last …"_

 **WILSON:**

IT WAS GETTING LATE. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TIME IT WAS WHEN I PULLED VANNA INTO THE BIG PARKING LOT AND SHUT OFF THE ENGINE. I WONDERED IF THE LITTLE CAR WAS AS TIRED AS ME. THE ICY WIND TORE AT MY LIGHT JACKET AND DIVED DOWN INTO MY OPEN-NECKED SHIRT AS I UNLOADED MY LUGGAGE AND DUG MY WINTER COAT FROM UNDER THE MESS IN THE BACK SEAT.

I LUGGED MY CARRYALL AND ANOTHER SUITCASE INTO THE LOBBY OF THE CHARMING OLD HOTEL AFTER A BRIEF WRESTLING MATCH WITH THE STRANGE FRONT DOOR. I SET THEM DOWN AND LOOKED AROUND. CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS DOMINATED THE COMMON AREA, AND STRINGS OF BLINKING MULTICOLORED LIGHTS GAVE THE ROOM A FESTIVE AIR. I COULD SMELL A COMBINATION OF SAGE AND ROSEMARY AND CINNAMON AND OTHER WINTER SPICES THAT TICKLED MY SENSES WITH HERETOFORE NEGLECTED AWARENESS OF THE FAST-APPROACHING HOLIDAY SEASON.

I decided the front door was tricky only if you were unfamiliar with the mechanism that opened it. It almost hit me in the butt, but I jumped out of the way quickly, banging both shins with the edges of the suitcases.

The man tending the registration desk was a thin senior citizen, hawk-nosed and white-haired. He was sitting on a tall upholstered stool behind the counter pretending to read a newspaper. His glasses were perched low on his elegant aquiline nose. He smiled as I approached, and slid the paper discreetly out of sight beneath the counter. "Guess you didn't see the sign on the door before you came in," he accused casually. "Next time just press the bar and it'll open automatically and give you time to get your luggage inside before it kicks you in the rear end. I reckon you're an out-of-stater … you got a tan, and nobody from New Hampshire in their right mind would dress like you … this time'a year …"

I got the impression that he was holding back laughter. I dropped both pieces of luggage to the floor, pursed my lips and glared at him for a few seconds and then smiled in return. "Thanks. I'll try to remember that. And you're right … I'm from New Jersey by way of West Palm Beach ..."

"Thought so … can I help you? I gather you would like a room. You look like you're frozen half to death."

"You're right about the frozen part," I admitted. "I knew New Hampshire got cold in the winter, but this wind is brutal. I've been on the road _awhile._ "

He climbed off the stool and opened a huge old registry book, flipping it around to face me. "A single room will run you one-twenty-five a week, meals and maid service extra. Right now you have your pick of every room on the third floor, and all but one on the second floor. The ground floor consists of offices, conference and banquet rooms, dining facilities, kitchen and meat locker and a room reserved for handicap guests. So sign in on the dotted line and choose your space. Will you be paying with cash or credit? My name is Paul Friedline, by the way, and I'm the night clerk. So … welcome to Etna."

I pulled out my wallet and placed my Visa card on the counter. "Thanks. Glad to meet you, Paul. I'm James Wilson, and I'll need a room for … let's make it a week."

He slid my card through the slot, pushed it and the receipt across for me to sign. I did so and we were square. "Got a room preference?"

"How about second floor, west corner. Seems like a good place to get a look at the town."

"Done," Paul said. "Good choice. Room 208. I'll call Nancy to come tend the desk, and I'll ride along up with you. He pressed a button on the side of the counter, grabbed a key and pointed to a short hallway across the room. Elevator's over there."

He bent to pick up my luggage, but I beat him to it. "You've got a couple of years on me, Paul. I'll take these. You lead the way."

He nodded. "I will indeed. Thank you."

A sandy haired middle-aged woman pushed through a pair of bat-wing doors from an area I decided was the main dining room, and walked up to us. She smiled and slid behind the counter. "Good evening, sir," she said, and I nodded politely. "Go ahead, Dad. I've got ya covered."

Paul nodded and started across the room with me following.

The elevator was small and its mechanism very quiet. The trip to the second floor took about six seconds. When we got off into the dimly lit hallway, Paul turned to the right and led me to the last room on the right. He unlocked the door, turned on the lights and showed me inside. I followed him and set down the suitcases. The room wasn't huge, but it contained all the amenities I would need. He pointed out the bathroom, the location of the closet, the house phone and the TV. There was also a port for my laptop, plenty of electrical outlets, a comfortable chair, a table and a handsome queen-size bed.

"You can call for room service any time before ten at night. After that, they'll make you sandwiches and drinks, but not full meals. Press the "O" for the kitchen staff. The "9" will get you an outside line." He paused a moment, then: "You here on business, James? "

It was a fair question and a familiar conversation starter. "Not really," I said. "Actually, I'm trying to locate someone. I've tracked him as far as Etna, but I'm not sure if he's here or not." (I knew he was, because I'd seen the car.)

"What's his name?" Paul asked. "I've lived here all my life. Maybe I know him."

I inhaled a deep breath and took the plunge. If I were stepping out of bounds, this man would surely tell me. "His name is … Kyle Calloway … he's a few years older than me … and he has a bad leg. Walks with a cane the last I knew …"

Paul's eyes widened in recognition. "Kyle? Well sure, everybody knows Kyle Calloway. In fact they all keep pretty close tabs on him … watch out for him … kind of dote on him. The two of you must have been out of touch for a _loo-nng_ time. He doesn't use a cane anymore. You do mean 'Doctor' Calloway; that right?"

I blinked.

 _*Keep tabs on him? Watch out for him? 'Dote' on him? Really?*_

"Unh … yeah. We were colleagues a long time ago. Then he dropped out of sight. I happened to read an article in the Journal of the American Medical Association that was written by him. I decided to try to find him."

Paul looked at me with raised eyebrows, and a smile widened across his face. "Well, you've about hit the jackpot on that one. He lives directly across the street from here." He pointed a finger at the front window. "Ground floor apartment, this side. You might want to go say 'hello' tomorrow. Or just wait 'til morning and walk downstairs. He works in our kitchen 'most every Saturday …"

I was speechless and unaware that my mouth was hanging open. "He's really here …" I was also unaware that I'd spoken out loud.

"Uh-huh. But he's … probably not like he was when you knew him …" Paul's voice sounded a little "off".

I frowned. What was he getting at? Something with House's bad leg? I looked a whole pile of questions into the space separating us.

"He uses crutches now. Or a wheelchair. Depends on how he's feeling. His leg is in sorry shape. You should be aware of that before you see him."

Stunned, I barely answered. I should have known. Trying to perform surgery on his own leg while sitting in a bathtub, could not have had a positive outcome, especially after flying the coop with stitches separated and his wound seeping blood through the thick material of denim jeans …

I thanked Paul sincerely and told him I would take "Kyle's" situation into consideration. He handed me the room key and left shortly after that. I had a lot of time to think. Mostly, I was heartbroken about the news, but it was what it was. I would deal with it. I had to. Just as House did.

I stood in the shower a long time, and I'm sure there were some hot tears mixed with the hot water running down my face …

 **HOUSE:**

I WOKE UP SATURDAY MORNING TO NUMBING PAIN. MY KNEE LAY FROZEN AT A FORTY FIVE DEGREE ANGLE; THE WASTED CALF, HARD AS ROCK. EDEMA HAD MADE THE ANKLE SPONGY AND ACHY. I BENT OVER AS FAR AS I COULD, TEETH CLAMPED ON MY BOTTOM LIP TO KEEP FROM MOANING OUT LOUD. I GRIPPED BOTH HANDS TIGHTLY ONTO THE HARD CALF MUSCLE AND WORKED IT AROUND … AND AROUND … UNTIL IT FINALLY EASED ENOUGH TO MOVE BACK AND FORTH AND I COULD BEGIN TO BREATHE AGAIN. I WAS SURE THAT AT LEAST PART OF IT STEMMED FROM MY DEDUCTION THAT THE ONE MAN I HAD SO LONGED TO SEE WAS SETTLED IN RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET.

WHEN I FINALLY ROLLED INTO THE BATHROOM, I FOUND THAT MY URINE WAS A SHADE DARKER, AND SLIGHTLY CLOUDY IN THE BOWL. THAT WASN'T GOOD. I WAS DUE AT THE HOTEL IN AN HOUR OR SO TO DO LILY'S VEGGIE CHOPPING FOR THE COMING WEEK. BUT I RECOGNIZED THE FACT THAT I WAS ABOUT TO EXPERIENCE KIDNEY FAILURE. I SHOULD DO SOMETHING QUICKLY. IT WAS TIME TO FISH OR CUT BAIT. NO MORE PLAYING AROUND WITH MY CHICKENSHIT GAME OF LIFE. I HAD TO CALL ED THOREAU AND TELL HIM TO PROCEED WITH PLANS FOR SURGERY. IT WAS WAY PAST TIME. I HAD BEEN SO DEEP IN DENIAL THAT I HADN'T EVEN REALIZED WHY I'D FELT SO MUCH EXTRA BODY PAIN THE PAST FEW DAYS. ERNIE FIRESTONE WAS RIGHT: DOCTORS MAKE LOUSY PATIENTS, ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY TRY TO TREAT THEMSELVES.

I called Lily first. "I can't come over today, dear. I'm sorry. I have go to the hospital and get my leg checked. It's to the point that It's making me ill, and the pain is just too much to deal with."

I hate doing this to Lily. Hers is the softest of hearts, and here I was, laying more shit on her. I heard her breath hitch. "Oh Kyle … I'm so sorry …" So I told her I needed to see the doctor … no use letting her know the truth.

Of course she understood. She hoped I would be all right and she would say a prayer for me, and please feel better, poor Kyle …

And I cringed and sighed and rang off. Then I called Ed Thoreau and told him I was going over to the hospital … and I was ready to have the fuckin' leg cut off. I'd finally had enough … and I told him about the dark urine in the bowl this morning. Ed said he would meet me there.

I got dressed and bundled up in my heavy coat and wool hat and set out to drive over to Dartmouth-Hitchcock.

"Ready to fish or cut bait, huh?" said the man.

"Yeah." Further words were unnecessary, and we both knew it.

 **WILSON:**

IT WAS EARLY IN THE MORNING, BUT I WAS ALREADY UP. FILLED WITH NERVOUS ENERGY AND HIGH EXPECTATION, I MADE A POT OF COFFEE AND SAT DOWN AT THE TABLE WITH IT.

I WATCHED OUT THE WINDOW, UP AND DOWN THE STREET AND AROUND THE QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. THE WIND HAD DIED DOWN OVERNIGHT AND THE DANCING CHRISTMAS LIGHTS WERE NOT ONLY TURNED OFF, BUT RESTING SEDATELY BETWEEN THEIR THIN ELECTRICAL WIRES.

ACROSS THE STREET I SAW THE DOOR OF THE FIRST-FLOOR APARTMENT PUSH OPEN. THEN I SAW GREGORY HOUSE IN THE FLESH. WATCHED HIM SMOKE A CIGAR AND TOSS THE BUTT INTO THE STREET.

THEN I SAW HIM AGAIN … BIG AS LIFE AND SKINNY AS A RAIL, BUT VERY MUCH ALIVE … STEP OUT ONTO HIS FRONT PORCH AND HOP ABOUT CLUMSILY TO REACH HIS BALANCE. THERE WAS NO SHOE ON HIS RIGHT FOOT; ONLY A HEAVY HUNTING-TYPE SOCK TO PROTECT IT FROM THE COLD. THE VERY FANCY CRUTCHES WERE BRIGHT RED AND HE, OF COURSE, MANEUVERED THEM EXPERTLY. I FELT MY EYES MIST UP, AND I EXERTED ALL THE WILL POWER I POSSESSED NOT TO WEEP. I SUCCEEDED ONLY MINIMALLY. I COULD FEEL HOT TEARS TRACK DOWN MY CHEEKS AS I WATCHED HIM …

There was a world of weariness surrounding him. The long, easy stride he'd had years ago, even while using the cane, had lent him a certain unique grace: 'grace with ripples'.

Now that grace was gone, replaced by something else I couldn't quite define. He looked tired. Over burdened. He was thin. Too thin, even for him. There was a stringiness about his body that hadn't been there before. Like the world had become too much to bear. Like he was on his way to his last battlefield.

I followed his progress across the sidewalk and saw him open the driver's door of the car I'd spotted last night. He sat down on the driver's seat sideways. I couldn't see his movements clearly after that, but his body language told me he was lifting the crutches to lean them across the seat and settling the affected leg deliberately inside the car; moving it gentle across the transmission hump and down. He must be experiencing unknown amounts of pain. Finally he was able to tuck the rest of his lanky body into the car. For a long moment he leaned into the steering wheel, arms crossed on the top of it. Recovering from the small exertion. Gathering the strength to continue to where he was going …

I made no move follow him. When I met him face-to-face, I wanted it to be a pleasant surprise, not an unpleasant encounter with him suspicious of having been stalked and pounced upon …

 **HOUSE:**

I started the Dynasty and let the defroster run until the windshield was clear. No way in hell could I stand out there and scrape it.

I could feel eyes upon me just now as I was walking across the sidewalk. The presence of eyes I had not seen for more years than I cared to think about. I felt the warmth and the concern and the intensity of unexpressed emotion I had so often felt before … now tempered with … _goddammit! … pity._

* _Aw, Wilson … don't you come up here and treat me like a carton of eggs! I have enough crap to deal with, without getting it dished out in spades from you. I'm anxious to see you too, but JEEZUS! Don't give me the 'brown-eyes' routine and make me bust your chops … that's a laugh, aint it, Jimmy …?*_

 **WILSON:**

He was late getting back. I stayed in my room, periodically checking at the window. Catnapped. Made another pot of coffee. Had a sandwich sent up to my room, midday. Scanned the TV channels. Found nothing, turned it off.

I saw the Dynasty's headlights pierce the dark in front of his apartment about 7:30 p.m.. The streets were just as deserted as they had been last night, except that the wind had died down completely. The Christmas decorations were no longer lashing around against the metal streetlight poles.

House got out and staggered inside his apartment, closed the door. After a time, all the lights went out.

Worried, but unable to do anything about it, I went to bed early.

 **HOUSE:**

 **Sunday morning:**

Yesterday had been hell.

I underwent test after test; treatment after treatment.

I'm not going into detail, but they drowned me in antibiotics. They strung me up to IVs. And they manipulated my damn leg until I yelled bloody murder. They smiled and said: "That's okay, Kyle … you won't have to put up with this much longer. Enjoy it while you can!"

Bastards!

They stuck their 'you-know-whats' into my' you-know-wheres' and wiggled them around.

"OW-W-W!"

They took measurements and calibrations and figured out nano-electronic configurations and smiled sweetly when I asked what the hell they were doing. (Like I didn't know …)

All they would say was that I was soon to become the new Six-Million Dollar Man.

"You can go home now, Kyle. Someone will assist you in getting dressed.

"Expect a call in a couple of days."

"Well Whooo-pee!

… Goldberg!"

380


	58. Chapter 58

Chapter 58

"Exodus"

 **WILSON:**

I WAS UP SUNDAY MORNING FAIRLY EARLY. IN AND OUT OF THE BATHROOM, SHAMPOOED, SHAVED AND BLOW DRIED. I DRESSED IN JEANS, RED FLANNEL SHIRT OVER A TAN TURTLE NECK, WOOL SOCKS, HARD-SOLE MOCCASINS. READY FOR A PIECE OF THE ACTION AND WHATEVER THAT ENTAILED. I DIDN'T BOTHER WITH ANYTHING ELSE. I NEEDED TO BE READY TO MOVE AT A MOMENT'S NOTICE. OR STAY GLUED TO THE SPOT ALL DAY LONG.

I wondered how House was after last night, and whether he was well enough to be up and about today. I sat at the table and leafed idly through one of the complimentary magazines that had been left on the dresser, but didn't pay much attention to anything on the pages. Couldn't keep my attention focused long enough to read more than a sentence or two.

The worst thing about spying on a person is doing it at their convenience and not mine. If Gregory House came out his front door to crutch somewhere, I had to be ready to follow, no matter what I'd been doing moments before. I was ten-plus kinds of impatient. I would make a lousy surveillance tech and I knew it. The only reason I kept looking for him for five long years is because he is the most intriguing person I have ever known. He makes me feel funny. Good. And I still don't want to let that feeling go.

I waited until 9:30 before taking a bathroom break. I hurried like crazy, but it still took two minutes and he could have already gone from my sight in half that time, even moving as slowly as he was.

When I got back to the table and peered out the window, I saw him standing on his porch with a cigar clamped between his teeth. He was wearing that old threadbare pea coat he'd worn back in Princeton. It still had the odd brown button haphazardly sewn beneath the right lapel. I laughed aloud; some things never change.

My timing was perfect. He leaned severely on those crutches, his bad foot resting lightly against the opposite ankle and moving in tandem … like the right leg was glued to the left one that actually worked. He was blowing smoke rings calmly into the air and scanning the street with shuttered eyes.

As I watched, trying to discern from his expression how he might be feeling healthwise, he tossed the cigar butt; his face lifted and his head tilted back. I tracked his eyes, and a shiver cascaded down the middle of my spine. He was blowing a smoke ring and staring a hole right through the middle of my forehead.

 _*How the hell does he always know this stuff? How!?*_

The right side of his lip curled as he returned his attention to his position and stepped carefully off the porch, hitched around the back of his car, and into the street. He was heading here. To the hotel.

I grabbed my keys and cell phone and ran out the door, locking it behind me. I skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs just as he approached the front door of the hotel. To my surprise, he was suddenly no longer alone. On his right side, the man tending the registration desk walked over and helped him off with the coat. On his left, a short, rotund woman, wearing a yellow waitress uniform, closed in on his opposite side. I heard him laugh; that embarrassed, staccato growl he used when someone made him uncomfortable. And I next heard the gentle rumble of his deep voice that I had not heard in such a long time: "Morning Vern, morning Lily. You're babysitting me again, and it's not in your job descriptions …"

They ignored his protests and accompanied him through the bat-wing doors, into the dining room beyond. I could hear other greetings from morning diners and light conversation and laughter as he passed by. I was astounded and deliriously happy at the same time. Obviously he was among friends.

I walked quietly into the large dining room and waited in the back until the hubbub died down. I moved slowly inside, staying back until I could get my bearings; looking around to discover where he might be seated. Then I saw the top of his head above the back of a booth about halfway up the side, next to a large window facing the street.

At his side, the small woman was placing an upholstered stool beneath the table, and the man from the front desk was lifting House's crippled leg gently until it was resting upon it.

When the man left him to return to the lobby, I walked closer and stood off to the side for a moment, watching.

The small woman stood up and saw me. Her face changed fractionally, questioning. I placed my index finger against my lips, requesting silence. Her eyes softened as she complied.

House had changed. He was neatly dressed … in the same casual style, but his shirt was pressed and the jeans too. His hair was trimmed neatly in a slightly longer style than I had ever seen him wear. The hair was liberally sprinkled with gray now, and curled ever so slightly at his neckline. He wore a neatly trimmed beard with a mustache, which effectively filled in some of the deep pain creases that lined his timeless face. The eyes, the mirrors of his soul, had not changed. They were as deep and azure as a mountain lake.

As always, he was restless. Fingers constantly in motion; flipping the edge of the menu with a finger-nail. Opposite thumb scratching at an eyebrow, fidgeting with the beard, stroking the mustache. It drew our distant timelines closer and closer together until it felt as though I'd been watching this tiny parade of rituals every day, all the dismal years we'd been separated.

I approached him slowly from the back, just off his right side.

I saw him freeze in place and lower his hands to his lap.

His right elbow lifted a fraction, as though he was about to look across, directly at me. Then his chin went down.

I stepped out of shadow and came forward opposite his shoulder. At the same moment, the entire restaurant froze in time.

No one spoke. Nothing moved. Every waiter, waitress, cook, bus boy, dishwasher, breakfast customer, kitchen maid, blended into a poster for "Breakfast at Tiffiny's".

I stepped across and into his field of vision.

I spoke softly. "Is this seat taken?"

He looked up and smiled. Looked directly at me with bright, fathomless eyes.

"I guess it is now …"

I moved into the booth across from him and sat down.

\- THE END –

I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoyed answering your reviews and getting to know some of you. Greg House and James Wilson have become very important in my imagination over the years, and I can't just let them die. I'll probably be writing HOUSE Stories until I sail away with the New Hampshire wind.

NOTE: You will find some mild discrepancies between this story and its sequel, "Darkened Wings". Some differences in detail. They would probably appear worse if I tried to correct them. "Reflections" includes much more minutiae than "DW". Please disregard the small things that don't agree exactly. Thanks.

Bets;)

Also:

Thank you, Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard, for your timeless portrayals.

I owe you. Big time!

378


End file.
